Foundation of Republic :relaunched:
by StarMan-01
Summary: Set in 2010, 13 years after the end of HDM. Various people, through coincidence, choice, or design, have all become intertwined in what will be the Second War between the Kingdom and the Republic. Read on; reviews are greatly appreciated.
1. ONE:  Newcastle Upon Tyne, January 2010

Foreword:

This is the 're-launch' of my 'magnum opus' fanfic, Foundation of Republic. Originally, after a smooth start with regular updates, I fell into a pattern of inexcusable tardiness that probably made reading my story a chore rather than an ejoyable activity. So now I have decided to do what I should have done in the beginning: wait till it was written, and then post the thing in regular updates. To those who have already started reading, this will mean a long wait till any new material arrives (though the whole thing has been edited a little): to all of you, I apologise. To new readers, it will hopefully make for a better reading experience than your predecessors got. To begin with, I am uploading the first two chapters; further updates will be on a weekly basis once I have ascertained a reasonable reader count.

A note of thanks to the following, who generously reviewed my story in its previous incarnation:

NuncaTeDije; Bard's Soul; JazzyLittleMonster; LoveTriumphs; NamedForTheWind; filmyfurry; holy cleopatra; ariex04; Joan Grace Alamo; Wrandom Writer; Write Lyes; Oneven; Malitai; Ceres Wunderkind; Deraptor; Spotted Lesbian; Selene Appia; and several anonymous reviewers. To all of you, your commentary is greatly appreciated and encouraged me to write.

Disclaimer:

Philip Pulman owns His Dark Materials and the characters therein, some of whom I have borrowed for this story. The rest is, of course, my own.

**. . . . .**

A final note before I begin: To begin with, this story follows two different plots - one in Will's world, one in another. They will be followed in alternating chapters, which will hopefully not be too confusing, nor be seen as too pretentious. Eventually, characters shift between plots and they will become intertwined, but at most times there will not be more than two parallel threads.

-StarMan.

* * *

><p><strong>ONE<strong>

**Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 23rd January 2010**

**. . . . .**

It is almost completely dark in the hallway, the only light being a slight glow around the corners of the closed door leading to the living room. Samantha feels for the 'light' button on her digital watch, and finding it, she reads the time off the briefly illuminated surface. 12:32. Normally she should have been in bed and asleep hours ago, but that is far from her thoughts now. She knows something is very wrong.

Very carefully, she pulls down the door handle, opening the door only a few centimeters and looking into the room. There are three men standing there; she does not register their faces, for her eyes already move to a fourth figure. Someone is sitting hunched over on the sofa, unmoving except for the rhythmic up-down motion of her shoulders as she inhales and exhales. Samantha recognises this person very well: it is her mother. The men are holding guns and pointing them at their prisoner. Without thinking, Samantha opens her mouth to scream, but as she does so, a hiccup rises in her throat and chokes out any sound she might have made. Only later would she realise that this little involuntary spasm almost certainly saved her own life.

The men in the room have not said a word, but now one of them, a tall, lean man with straw-blond hair, nods to his companions, and points with his thumb in the direction of the kitchen, on the other side of the living room. One of the other two slings his rifle over his shoulder, and begins to look through the cupboards. Then the tall man turns and approaches the door behind which Samantha is standing, momentarily paralysed with horror and fear.

At first she thinks the man has seen her, but it takes less than a second for her to realise that his ambling pace indicates that while his target is the door, he is seeking to walk through, not to find anyone lurking behind it. Regaining her senses, Samantha pulls away from the door, her bare feet making no sound on the carpet in the hallway.

As she retreats toward the stairs, she considers her next course of action. She is surprised by her own levelheadedness, considering the danger of the situation she is in. She is too young to understand the extent to which the human consciousness is able to postpone the reactions to such events, in order to preserve itself; to her, her lack of emotion is unexpected. But then, she had never expected this kind of thing to happen at all.

Samantha has reached the top of the stairs by the time that the man reaches the door, and it is still only half a minute since she first saw her mother's unconscious body. Samantha carefully places one foot in front of the other, tracing her hand along the wall beside her, for up here the darkness _is_ absolute. Her mind is quickly cycling through possible place to hide. She wonders why she didn't try and run out the front door – it was right next to her as she stood in the hallway – but it is too late for that now. The men are walking around below, methodically making their way through the rooms. They are searching for something.

Samantha is trying to remember playing hide-and-seek with her brother, Edward, years ago. He had been much older than her, and was too big to hide himself anywhere. But she had always managed to find good hiding places, and he would spend ages looking... And sometimes, if he couldn't find her, he took his revenge by giving up and not telling her that he had done so, so she just stayed in hiding until she got bored, or realised that she had been tricked...

A memory comes back to her of one such incident, and she thinks of a place she could hide.

As she passes the open door of the study, Samantha notices a very faint, barely audible humming coming from inside - the sound of a computer fan. Curious, she goes into the room, knowing that she can reach her destination through the study, anyway. As she looks around, she sees that the computer is indeed on, but there is a screen-saver, so it does not produce enough light to be seen from the hallway. Her mother must have been working here when she heard someone at the door, and turned the light out behind her as she left the room. And she had let the people in...

Samantha pushes this thought out of her mind. Thinking of the computer, though, Samantha suddenly realises something. Inserted into a drive in the computer is a disk. It is a heavy, square, black thing, a kind of disk hardly seen or used at all nowadays. Samantha recognises it immediately, though she has no idea what it contains. It is one of her mother's secrets.

For years, Samantha has known that her mother had secrets that she would share with no one, not even her daughter. Samantha knows that these secrets have something to do with her father, who had died nearly thirteen years ago, before she was born. Samantha knows that her mother is unaware of just how much she knows.

It occurs to Samantha, quite suddenly, that this disk might be the very object that the intruders are searching for. So she quickly ejects it from the machine, and holds it fast in her hand, as there are no pockets on her pyjamas that could hold it. Then she proceeds out through another door in the study, that leads into the spare bedroom. Well, it is her brother's bedroom, actually, but he hasn't used it in a long time, having left home for London years ago.

The room is plainly furnished, and far neater than it had ever been while in use: there is a low wooden bed, a bookshelf (devoid of contents), and a built-in wardrobe. _That_ is her destination. Samantha heaves the heavy wooden door open. It slides on its metal rollers, but it has not been opened in a while, and it takes considerable effort for twelve-year old Samantha to get it completely open. She moves the door back and forth a few times to loosen the grimy build-up on the rollers, remembering that she will have to be able to open and close the door from the inside, without handles.

The wardrobe itself is not the hiding-place: anyone searching the house would be bound to open it, and there is nothing inside that can conceal a person, not even a little one. No, it is because there is a fifteen-centimeter wide space between the back of the inside of the wardrobe and the wall, which is not visible from the outside, and would not be noticed unless one were specifically looking for something unusual in it. The back of the wardrobe is a thin wooden board, and it is loose. Samantha knows this. She accidentally pushed it in when she was hiding from her brother in the wardrobe, years ago. She hadn't told anybody, afraid she might get into trouble. She had never thought it would prove useful for more than playing hide-and-seek.

Once inside, Samantha closes the door behind her with the friction of her palms pressed flat against the sliding door, and then pulls away the backing of the wardrobe, setting it back in place as she hides behind it. It is very cramped inside. She has forgotten to take into account how much she'd grown, and there is a wooden beam that runs through the space at what is now her head height. The space is not wide enough to kneel, so Samantha has to crane her neck down uncomfortably as she waits in the blackness.

Time drags by at a torturously slow pace. It isn't quite the stereotypical 'minutes seeming like hours' thing, but the ten minutes Samantha does spend in darkness and discomfort certainly feel longer than that. She can't hear anything either – the thick wooden doors of the wardrobe are enough to block out almost all sound from the rest of the house.

Being so helpless is very frustrating to Samantha: she is used to looking after herself: she has lived alone with her mother much of her life, and her mother has always been busy with work. Not to busy to be loving and kind and motherly, but too busy for just about everything else. Samantha is used to being active, doing something, not just standing and waiting to see what will happen. Worst of all is the discomforting thought that her life is no longer in her own hands – whatever happens to her would depend on how thoroughly these intruders were inclined to search. She can't stay hidden forever. The air in here is dusty and will soon begin to get stale.

No, she corrects herself, the worst is what might happen to her mother. These men could not have good intentions. They had come in the middle of the night with guns and were threatening her mother and they were looking for something. And when they don't find it? Would they kill her? Samantha is beginning to wonder if she should perhaps give up the disc, in the hopes that the men will leave, when a sudden noise and a vibration travelling through the walls signal the wardrobe being opened. Samantha freezes, willing herself not to move.

There is a man standing less than a meter away. Samantha can't see him, of course, but she can hear his breathing, heavy, aggressive, and the sound he makes as he shifts his feet. Then he calls to someone in a loud voice. For the second time Samantha is almost startled into revealing her location.

"Still haven't found her!" He says. His voice seems so loud, Samantha sustains the brief hope that he might alert their neighbours, who could call help – but no, they should mostly be deep in sleep, and even if someone did hear, they probably wouldn't think twice about it. "I'm telling you, Mike, there _was_ supposed to be a kid 'round here as well!"

A reply comes almost immediately, from some distance away and in a quieter voice, but now with no more than a centimeter of wood between them, Samantha can still make out the words:

"Don't concern yourself with it, brother. Our mission was to capture the heretic and retrieve a disc. We're not here to murder children."

"You know the Lord will absolve us of any sin committed for His greater glory" The first man replies. "And no one is supposed to witness anything that happens. We can't afford to be discovered."

"Come on, how much harm can one child do, even if she was to try? Let's find the files and then leave. We don't want to still be here in the morning. Do you think the disc could be in that room?"

"No, the room's completely bare. You couldn't hide a flea here..." The irony of this statement is lost to Samantha as she is still shocked by the thought that someone has actually been searching for _her_. She listens as the man walks away from the wardrobe and leaves the room.

After a few more uncomfortable minutes Samantha suddenly hears a cry from the direction of the study. She immediately thinks they must have realised the disk had been taken from the computer, though she can't imagine how. Then she remembers that she hadn't seen the screen: there was a screen-saver on. Suppose the computer had been in the middle of reading a file of the disc... It would display and angry warning message, wouldn't it?

In fact, this is exactly what the men had discovered. And they came to a conclusion that was quite close to the truth: The girl, the woman's daughter, had taken the disc. But they make one mistake: they immediately assume that the girl must have fled. After a brief discussion, now too quiet for Samantha to hear, they decide to abandon the search.

A few minutes later Samantha hears, coming through the bedroom's window, the distinct sound of a car starting. Samantha relaxes – she is safe, for now. But what does that matter, after all? They have taken her mother.

Samantha pushes aside the thin board and stumbles out, forgetting to prop the board back up. It clatters against the other side of the wardrobe. After having got used to the cramped conditions, she is now reminded of the discomfort, as she feels the aching in her legs and back and neck. Not only that, but now that the immediate danger has passed, there is no longer any reasoning with which her consciousness can keep her nerves in check: She involuntarily falls to her knees and trembles uncontrollably, until she was finds herself too exhausted for even that simple movement. A long time passes before she comes to her senses again.

The most immediate idea that comes to mind is to find her mother, and free her. Almost as soon as the thoughts comes, however, Samantha painfully dismisses it as impossible. How could she? She has no idea who those men were, and what clues have they left? She thinks carefully. If it were a movie, she decides, there would have to be something about: a scrap of paper with an address or phone number that one of them has dropped; a torn of piece of a coat or hat that happened to have the owner's name; or maybe the car has left tyre tracks behind, and she would only have to follow that. Needless to say, Samantha doesn't even bother to look for anything like that. This wasn't a movie.

The next thought is to contact the police. They could certainly help her; She might be able to help them, too. She tries to remember if there was anything in the brief snatch of conversation she had heard that might be useful, but there doesn't seem to be anything remarkable. One of them had seemed pretty nasty, he'd wanted to kill her; the other had seemed less evil. But he had still kidnapped her mother, so that was only relative. But what was that word – heretic, that was it – they'd used it to describe her mother? What does 'heretic' mean? Samantha has no idea. Her vocabulary is pretty good for a twelve year old, but she has never heard of a 'heretic'.

But She also realised that if she tells the police, then they would cause a lot of trouble for her, too: They'd find some place for her to stay, and they'd want to ask her lots of questions, and chances were, they might not even be able to find her mother at all... And would she have to tell them about her mother's secrets, the details of which she doesn't even know herself? And the disc. She still has it in her hand, although she had forgotten it was even there. Would she – should she – tell anybody about that? No, best not.

She decides that first she should see for herself what is on the disc. She knows her mother usually keeps it hidden; it seems to be pure coincidence that she happened to be looking through it now. Samantha knows it has something to do with her father: his name is printed on the disc in permanent marker: 'DR. Thomas COOMBS' and beneath that, in smaller print 'INTERDIMENTIONAL TRAVEL IN PRACTICE – CONFIDENTIAL : R.o.H CLEARANCE LEVEL 5/V'. That's it. Samantha doesn't understand any of it, but she doesn't espect to. Perhaps the files on the disc itself will explain, though.

The disc fits back into the drive. A little message box appears on screen to show that the computer is reading the disc. Samantha watches expectantly as the little status bar fills up repeatedly. Then a window opens with a selection of files on it. They are numbered, not named - Samantha has no idea what information they might contain. Yet. click Samantha opens one. The computer asks for a password – well, that is a dead end. This is the same for the other files as well. Except the only one that is named – it is labeled 'Allison'. That's her mother's name.

It is a word-processed document that opens itself with notepad. It is a short note, and is indeed addressed to her mother:

_I've copied all our research notes/papers/schematics etc. pertaining to inter-dimensional travel onto this disc. It's the only thing I could find that can be accessed by a computer in our world. There's trouble approaching, and when the republic starts crashing down around our ears (literally and metaphorically!),we might have to leave in a hurry, and home is the only obvious place to go. The ability to travel between worlds is vital to being able to build the republic, so we've got to keep the knowledge._

_For now, just keep transferring copies of everything you're working on onto the disc. Now that they've got me working on those weird thought-controlled aircraft, you're in the best position to do this. The files are protected by passwords: that's simple, just think of what we're fighting for._

_Tom._

Samantha is shocked. Partly because this is the only writing from her father she has ever read – and it is just a brief explanatory note, at that – and partly because what little is mentioned raises far more questions than it answers. Samantha had almost found herself believing that she would finally know what her mother had been keeping secret for so long; instead, she is completely confused. None of this makes any sense.

Her brother might know more. He would have been... ten years old then, and if he had been with his parents, maybe he would understand what their father was going on about. There is no mention of him in the note, but then, it only seems fixed on the importance of a 'republic' and 'inter-dimensional travel' – whatever that is.

But that is a possibility: finding her brother, Edward. If he can at least understand what is so important about this information, and who it needs to go to, then maybe they can find allies. And together they could get her mother back. It's a pretty shaky plan, but it's as good as any she can think of, and at least then she can _do_ something. That's what matters most.

Samantha carefully makes her way downstairs. She is pretty certain the house is empty, but she decides it is best to be cautious anyway. Downstairs everything is dark except for the living room; but the light spilling through the open door is enough for Samantha to easily find her way to the light switch in the hall. She flicks the light on and looks around. She has been expecting the place to be a mess, with furniture turned upside-down and things scattered all over the floor. She doesn't quite know why it should be like that: it is just the kind of scene she associates with break-ins. Too many tv-shows, probably. Instead, everything is neat and orderly as if nothing has happened: To her disappointment, Samantha realises that her mother hadn't put up any fight at all before they drugged her. They must have tricked her into letting her guard down, Samantha decides.

Samantha finds the phone in its usual place, and, among a pile of papers with contact details, she finds a piece of paper with her brother's phone number on it. That shows how often they keep in touch: All commonly used numbers are listed on a little sticker on the phone itself, but Edward's is among one-time acquaintances and some colleagues of her mother's whom she only rarely has reason to speak to.

Five years ago, Edward had left home, hurriedly, even though he was still in his last year at school. Samantha had been too young to understand what he had been upset about, but he had definitely been upset. He had returned to visit them several times in the following years, but he had stayed apart. Samantha had at first missed the father figure that her brother had substituted for her, but she'd grown to live without it.

Picking up the phone, she punches in the number, knowing full well that at this time of the night her brother will be either asleep or not at home. If he is asleep, hopefully his phone can wake him; otherwise, she will have to find his mobile phone number, and he might not be in much of a state to talk. In fact, neither of these happen: after half a minute waiting, the phone is picked up by a man whose voice she doesn't recognise, and who is very annoyed at having been dragged out of bed. After receiving a stream of verbal abuse, Samantha manages, as politely as possible, to ask:

"I'm really sorry if I woke you up, mister, but it's really urgent. I need to talk to Edward. Is Edward Coombs there?" There is a pause as the man at the other end seems to be trying to get his half-sleeping brain into action.

"I don't know who the fuck you think you are kid, and I don't know why you'd be ringing Ed at this time of the night – or morning – but I do know that Ed hasn't been living here for two fucking months." Samantha remembers that Edward has been sharing a flat, so it makes sense that he could have moved and changed phone numbers.

"Oh. Sorry. Do you know where he is then, or his phone number? Please?" She tries to sound as sweet as possible, in an attempt to win the man's sympathy. It works, partly: at least he calms down enough to tell her that Edward has moved in with his latest girlfriend and no, he doesn't know the number, and if that was all could he go back to bed. In fact, he doesn't wait for answer, and he hangs up straight away, leaving Samantha with no option but the mobile phone. There is a reason Samantha has avoided that before: Edward has been through more mobile phones than he has girlfriends, and she is almost sure to be unable to find the right number. She is right: after ten minutes searching, and two calls to wrong numbers (one of the phones had been switched off, and just as she rang she noticed that it was labeled to actually be the number of one of her friends; the other phone was picked up by a woman, a colleague of her mother, who was still working at this hour. Not wanting to have to answer any questions, Samantha hung up immediately. Time is passing by and she is no closer to getting in contact with Edward.

Samantha realises that the only way she could possibly find her brother is to look for him herself. How can she manage that? She has been to London before, but then her mother had driven her there. But it is the only possibility she can think of, and after all, London isn't that far away, is it? Well, okay, it is far enough. There is a lot to prepare, and she had better get to it, she thinks.

It is past two in the morning by the time she feels she is ready; She has packed a rucksack with everything she thinks she might need: Spare changes of clothes, basic toiletries, a little food. After some searching, she found her mother's bag, with her wallet inside: there was about twenty-five pounds in it. It was a good thing she had got money out recently. Samantha doesn't know the PIN on her mother's credit card (she certainly isn't supposed to!), so she would be limited to what she could find in cash. She also has a ten-pound note of her own left over from her birthday, only two weeks ago. Altogether it a fair bit, but she will have to be pretty sparing if she still wants to have money by the time she gets to London. Finally, she packs a swiss-army knife (her mother's), and, after spending a few minutes debating the thought, she goes to the cabinet in the living room downstairs and takes out the pistol that is kept locked up there. It must have belonged to her father, she thinks, although it could be her mother's; it is a rather plain, ugly, black thing, the standard military sidearm kind of weapon. It is actually unregistered, though Samantha doesn't know about such things; And anyway, she had thought her mother only kept it as a memento, but there are still bullets for it, and since the revelation that there were enemies out there...

Samantha hopes she won't even have to hold it, but she decides it is safest to have it with her. She buries it at the very bottom of her pack. Finally, she wraps the disc in some bubble wrap (it isn't actually fragile at all, but Samantha has no idea of that) and carefully puts it, too, in the pack. Then, having decided everything is as ready as it could possibly be, she changes out of her pyjamas into more suitable clothing (pale blue jeans, and a short sleeved t-shirt), and finally lets herself succumb to her weariness, collapsing asleep on the sofa.

**. . . . .**

At about the same time, somewhere in the uplands a good hundred-and-twenty kilometers north-west of Newcastle, a plain white van is winding its way along an unmarked dirt road. It has traveled far, and fast; the occupants of the van are not going to feel safe until they reach their destination. They have every reason to suspect that they will at the very least have the police on their tail. They have made a mess of their operation. At least they have been partly successful: their prisoner is sitting with them in the van, now beginning to show signs of waking. It does not matter. They're almost there.

Their destination is a military-style compound concealed in the hills, a place that these men call their home. At least, they _see_ it as a military compound. In truth, the shoddy construction of asphalt and chicken-wire resembles an oversized basketball court more than anything else. The flat black surface is surrounded by a 'perimeter fence' only two meters high, and crowded to one side of this enclosure is a series of flat-roofed buildings of concrete and weatherboard and corrugated iron. Altogether it does not seem particularly imposing.

This is, in fact, quite intentional: those who run the camp are well aware that their activities can not go by the country's authorities completely unnoticed. They have supporters in high places, but not high enough to ensure that no one is aware of their existence. So instead they put an effort into setting up an aura of ineptitude. The security services don't even register them as a threat: were they to even consider the camp for a moment, they would think it to be a kind of retreat for down-and-outs to connect with God and change their lives around.

They would not think that it is the headquarters for a small army of highly trained, well led, and thoroughly indoctrinated zealots, who are waging an invisible war across the country. Nobody would consider such an unlikely possibility for a moment.

The van stops and the driver produces a security card, waving it in the face of one of the men standing guard. They hastily move to open the gates (held shut with all the complex machinations of a steel bar), and the van drives through and parks on the asphalt outside the central building.

This building, less than fifty meters square, serves as the center of coordination in the camp, and contains the living quarters and office of Father Geoffreys, the one man who's word is absolute authority here. It is to this office that brother Jacob Stevens and brother Michael Reid find themselves directed towards, while the third man (the driver) leads the prisoner away in the direction of another building.

None of these men are actually monks or priests in the sense of being ordained, although they certainly lead the austere and disciplined life typical of such people. Despite the way they address each other, they are all simply devoted members of their congregations who have answered what they believe to be the call of their faith, and found their way to priests like Father Geoffreys.

Over the course of the last few years they have built up an army, trained and housed in in this base, and a couple of even smaller bases in similarly remote locations around the country. The 'soldiers' themselves have little idea of the extent of their movement: only those in the highest positions of authority maintain contact with each other. This way, were one base to be discovered, the others can continue to operate in secret.

The two men stand outside the white-painted wooden door to Father Geoffreys' office. Jacob has already knocked twice, and is raising his hand to strike a third time when the stern voice of the priest calls to them to come in.

Father Geoffreys is sitting behind his desk, in the manner of a military officer, which is exactly what he models himself as: He is an officer in God's army. His clothing does not mirror an army uniform, however: his thin but sturdy frame is decked out in a simple white robe, and his white-grey hair is shaved very close to his scalp.

The room is plain and unadorned; the only furnishings are the desk, three chairs, and a cabinet, all of a simple and practical design. The desk is clear except for a neat stack of papers in the middle that the priest had been reading before he had been disturbed.

The two men enter with heads bowed, but do not sit; the extra chairs are for occasions where Father Geoffreys is in meeting with his immediate lieutenants, or is visited by distinguished guests. These two grunts would have to stand, as is respectful and proper.

"We were successful in capturing the heretic Coombs, Father!" Michael reports. He is nominally of higher rank in the Army than Jacob is, and had been in charge of the mission. The priest nods in approval, but that is the limit to his congratulations. He is not one known for delivering praise.

"And she is unharmed? I believe I stressed the importance of that to you when you undertook this task."

"Yes, she is. She was still awake – we didn't even have to break in. Jacob was able to... overpower her when she opened the door, and she has been drugged, but she's otherwise unharmed. Though if I may ask, Father, why's it so important that she's not harmed? I thought that all the heretics 're to be purged anyways."

Father Geoffreys shakes his head. It is not good for a soldier to question, even when the question is as innocent as that. The inquisitive person can only keep questioning, until he becomes curious about everything, and will even dare to ponder the purpose and meaning of his faith. _That_ is to be avoided at all costs.

"You may _not_ ask" Father Geoffreys replies, decisively. "And have you retrieved the files that she possessed?"

"I'm afraid they're gone, Father. Somehow, someone – I guess the woman's child – was able to take the disc and escape, even as we searched the house. I'm prepared to do penance for-"

"That will not be necessary, Brother Michael." The priest approves of this attitude, but he sees no reason why the man should be punished for this particular error. "But we will need to retrieve those files as well. Hopefully, the heretic will divulge whatever knowledge she holds in her mind, and in time, the Lord will see the rest delivered to us. In the morning you may have new instructions. For now, you will need to rest."

He tells them to be on their way, but as they leave, he calls:

"Brother Michael? Before you return to the dormitory, will you find Father Stefanski? He should still be awake and at prayer in the chapel. Tell him to come here. That will be all."

Michael nods, and leaves the room with his head still bowed, before hurrying to catch up with Jacob. The two men are good friends; they joined the Army of the Holy Order together. Recently, Jacob has become increasingly worried by his friend's inquisitive attitude, and his readiness to interpret for himself the orders he is given. Jacob has chosen not to tell Father Geoffreys about Michael's unwillingness to kill the child, but he knows that he cannot continue to keep his friend safe if it obstructs the Lord's work.

Before he enters the dormitory, Michael turns aside and enters the small room next door that serves as their 'chapel'. There, kneeling in prayer, is Father Stefanski. Michael relays Father Geoffreys' message to him, and he crosses himself before getting up and heading outside in the direction of the central building.

Father Geoffreys is himself at prayer in his meager quarters adjoining the office when Father Stefanski arrives. Father Geoffreys sighs and gets to his feet, wincing briefly at the pain in his head. He has been getting bad headaches a lot recently. He would pray that the Lord God might relieve him of this, were that not a selfish and inconsiderate thing to ask. God is _not_ a doctor.

"Father?" The priest on the other side of the door asks. Father Geoffreys recognises the voice, and, with a more amiable tone than he used to greet the two soldiers, asks the younger priest to come in.

Father Stefanski walks in an takes a seat in the room. He is one of Father Geoffrey's lieutenants, and is to be afforded this privilege. Despite his name, Kazimir Stefanski is three generations British, though he maintains his cultural heritage. His grandfather had been also been a priest, in Poland, but there were rumours that he had been supportive of the NAZIs during the second world war, and he had certainly not wanted to stay as the Communists came to power, so he had emigrated to England as quickly as he could.

As a Pole, Kazimir Stefanski is a Catholic, unlike the majority of the Army of the Holy Order, who belong to the Church of England. Still, Father Geoffreys believes that the particulars of a man's faith do not matter, so long as he is loyal to God, and to the cause of His army. After all, he is in allegiance with people of far more diverse faiths than any of his followers in the Army realise.

"You requested my presence, Benjamin?" The younger priest is well educated and well-spoken, as opposed to the majority of the Army's members, who come from a certain stratus in society, and not one very high up on the ladder.

"Indeed. Our soldiers suffered a partial defeat tonight. They were able to capture Coombs, but not the documents detailing her and her husband's work. You know what I'm speaking of?"

"The followers of... Lord Asriel. The war in another world. They claim to have to have defeated..." Kazimir Stefanski is nervous to even speak such blasphemy "... they claim to have killed God. That is all I know. That is all you have told me."

Father Stefanski is the only person in the Army besides Benjamin Geoffreys who knows anything of this, and as far as he is aware, in this whole world. Father Geoffreys himself would not have believed such things, had be not been visited by an Angel of God and told of what had happened.

That was twelve years ago. He has had a difficult task building God's army in this godless world that he lives in, but he knows it is his divinely appointed task and he also knows there are many like him, with more power, in worlds where God's flock is stronger and more faithful. He knows that he must prepare for a second holy war to re-establish the rule of God.

Perhaps, in time, he will make Father Stefanski privy to all the knowledge he holds, but not now. For now, his lieutenant knows enough to grasp the importance of retrieving these 'documents', lest they fall into the hands of their arch-enemies, the heretics who would consider abolishing God and establishing their 'Republic of Heaven'.

"You understand, then, that we must put all our efforts into finding the files. They are stored on a disc of some description, which is believed to be in possession of the woman's daughter, a girl by the name of Samantha Coombs."

"A girl, Benjamin? How old is she?"

"Twelve, if I recall. Her father died in the war before her birth."

"Then she cannot pose much of a danger, can she? Unless she is in contact with the agents of the Republic... which would be highly unlikely. Our own agents have found little evidence to prove that they have any organisation at all. In this world, that is."

This is true, and Father Geoffreys is thankful for it. While the world he knows is drastically lacking in faith, few of its people are any more likely to take the heretic's stance either. For the most part, they don't like to commit themselves to a cause, and that makes his task considerably easier. But Father Geoffreys has also heard stories from his other-worldly connections that one child can cause more damage to God's cause than the combined armies of Satan himself. Father Geoffreys finds this hard to believe, but he is careful none-the-less.

He knows that many of the Army's soldiers, and very likely Father Stefanski as well, are uneasy about killing a child - he himself would find such an act despicable, if it were not for the cause of the Lord his God. But it must be done. If the child has the documents, then they cannot be sure of how much she knows herself. As gently as possible, Father Geoffreys explains this to his lieutenant, who shifts uncomfortably in his chair as he listens.

Stefanski understands the authority of Father Geoffreys, however, and knows that in this cause he answers only to God. Who would he be, to question him?

"I understand, Benjamin. I will send a unit immediately to track down this child before she can cause any harm."

"Not immediately. Wait until the morning: it will be best if we send the same soldiers who apprehended the girl's mother. The less of them know about... what must be done, the better."

"Alright. Is... is that all?" The younger priest understands very well. This is a difficult task.

"No. There is something else, that should be carried out immediately. The girl has a brother, one Edward Coombs, who we do not believe is supportive of the Republic in any way, and would therefor not be considered an immediate threat.

"However, he is old enough to remember what his parents were involved in, during First War. It is likely that if the girl can contact the Republic, it will be through this man. He is to be found and eliminated at once."

"Where does he live?"

"London. I'm afraid that's all that we know. We will not be able to find him easily – finding one man among millions – but I have certain methods at my disposal. If the girl does reach him, he will have to be eliminated. Until then, it would be best to dispatch some soldiers to track him down, so that we can act efficiently, should it become necessary."

"That makes sense. I will organise a unit to prepare and head for London immediately – it is quite a distance. Do you want to be in radio contact with them?"

"I would like you to be in direct command of this operation, so that you might be in the right place if your leadership is needed. I can trust you with that. But keep me well informed - it may be that I will have to guide you myself. That is all"

Father Stefanski rises to his feet and bows his head in acknowledgment.

"God be with you" Father Geoffreys says, as his lieutenant leaves, his head now raised proudly. He is happy to be entrusted with seeing God's work done, whatever the nature of this work. He knows that God will forgive him any sins that must be committed to further his cause.

Father Geoffreys sighs. It is very late, and he has been awake for hours, waiting expectantly for the return of his soldiers, only to learn that even more had to be prepared. He is very tired. He returns to prayer, but his headache is worse than ever, and he decides that God will understand if he must sleep now.

In every world known to God, armies are preparing to fight the Second War for heaven. What Father Geoffreys does not know is that he is only one of a number of similar 'divinely chosen' leaders in his world alone. Even so, the forces of God in his world are very limited, and they will have a difficult time ahead of them.

**. . . . .**

Samantha's watch reads 11:12. She is walking down the road, in the direction of the metro station. She is unaware that an hour ago a plain white van has left a military-style compound in the middle of the uplands, carrying three men who are intent upon her destruction.

**. . . . .**


	2. TWO: Doors and Openings

TWO

**Doors and Openings**

**. . . . .**

Three pairs of eyes watch expectantly from behind a transparent pane as the air inside the oval-shaped metal hoop glows and shimmers. Then there is a sudden flash as an immense amount energy escapes as pure white light, slamming forcelessly against all the walls and ceiling of the sealed chamber. Anyone looking directly at this light would instantly be blinded, but the transparent pane, grown from organic polymer, is designed to refract light so as to shield the eyes of those standing behind it. It is standard in testing laboratories off various kinds throughout the developed nations of the world.

The light is gone in less than a second – and all three people watching gasp in almost perfect unison as they look on. For within the hoop is an image of a sea of sand-dunes. But it is _not_ an image. Anybody not involved in the research and development of this device might think it to be a complex hologram projector, perhaps, or something of that sort. In fact, it is something infinitely more complex.

Tarik finds himself, for a moment, almost wishing that it hadn't actually worked. He is the head of the development team, and so it is the honour for him to be the first person to use it. He thinks he understands how the deep-sea explorers must have felt, who sat themselves in metal constructs and sank to the bottom of the ocean, risking instant death if the pressure of water should prove to great. How the first space travellers must have felt, who trusted their lives to a scientific principle that says they _should_ be able to survive in the void, inside a hollow piece of metal filled with air. How the first colonists on Venus must have felt, trusting that the decades of terraforming efforts had indeed made the atmosphere breathable.

Now he must trust in the belief that the air and sun that he sees through that opening is the same as in his world, and that he can step through it as if it were no more than an ordinary doorway. He knows that many long years of research have proven that a person can survive in other worlds. He even knows that this kind of travel has been achieved before, using different methods. But he still can't be completely sure. What if the opening were to collapse behind him, and they couldn't open it again?

"Go on, go for it! This is history, Tarik!" Robert says enthusiastically, and he pats Tarik on the back with considerable force.

"If you don't want to, I'm perfectly willing to volunteer" Laila says, half-joking. Of course Tarik wouldn't miss this opportunity. But she would certainly be happy to accept the honour herself.

Tarik takes a deep breath, and proceeds through the electronic door out onto the testing platform. A series of flourescent tubes in the ceiling, previously disabled so as to give a better view through the portal, turn on automatically at his approach.

He approaches the opening cautiously. There are any number of problems that could occur, simple, unavoidable problems, that have nothing to do with the mechanism. What if that other world is home to some dangerous wild animals, that could come bounding over to attack him the moment he steps through? Or perhaps smaller threats, much smaller, some virus that would be completely alien and deadly to him? Well, nothing can be learned while he is just standing around.

Tarik turns back briefly to smile at his two colleagues who are watching excitedly from behind the polymer screen. If nothing goes wrong, they will want to be following him very soon. He reminds himself that he is about to do something incredibly significant: the result of the tiring days and long nights of research and development that have taken up the better part of the last fifteen years of his life.

The portal is taller than he is by a small margin, but still he bends his neck down a little as he looks through. He is looking at a scene unlike any he has seen in his life: a massive sandy desert – no, a beach, if that is indeed water in the distance – and, in the opposite direction to the sea, a wall of green: a forest of strange trees obscuring the horizon. There is no sign of animal life in sight. Tarik steps through.

The portal opens about half a meter off the ground in this other world, a detail that Tarik only notices as he puts his foot on thin air. He was too busy concentrating on what was in the distance to pay attention to what was right in front of him. He throws out one hand to the ground, and succeeds in balancing himself. He grabs a handful of white-gold sand and sifts it through his fingers. Well, he thinks, that was a little anti-climactic. But they have done it- they have travelled into another world.

Tarik stands at the portal, beaming back at his colleagues. He does not need words to express what he feels – indeed, any words he can think of would be wholly inadequate. More than anyone else, Tarik had made it his life's work to discover a means of travelling between worlds – and now he has succeeded beyond his dreams. He looks around himself again. There is nothing in sight except the sand, the sea, and the forest of trees, shining under the midday sun. Palm trees? No, they are more like... gigantic ferns. He has never seen tree ferns with his own eyes, but he has heard of their existence in his own world. To him, this world is both alien and oddly familiar. It is still earth – a different earth with a different history, but earth all the same.

Tarik feels a sense of pride as he considers that he is very likely the first human being to ever set foot in this world, to see this amazing landscape and breath this warm, fresh, unpolluted air. The second and third people to enter this world are already stepping through the portal.

"Watch the step-"Tarik warns, but both Robert and Laila, entering together, also fail to gauge the height off the ground, and tumble down into the sand.

"A beautiful place, isn't it?" Laila says, brushing the sand off her trousers. "Quite the holiday destination. It will be rather a shame, though, when we start moving into worlds like this. They won't be so pristine forever."

Tarik agrees. He personally would not want to see people coming here to colonise and take over this environment. But he knows it is inevitable. In fact, the only way that his research department have managed to gain the funding they need – and this _has_ become the most expensive project since space colonisation – is by selling the idea of new lands to inhabit for the ever-growing human population, and infinite new sources for the dwindling supply of natural resources. Tarik has had to sell out worlds like this one in order to see his dreams realised. A heavy price, he thinks, but worth it. After all, there will always be more worlds, won't there?

Of course, there is also the possibility that humans from other worlds have had much the same ideas as he has. Tarik knows that thirteen years ago a man in another world managed to open a massive gateway – using a very unrefined method, but based on similar principles to what he himself has used – for the purpose of fighting a war against... a church, or religion in general, or something like that. This man had managed to contact the leaders of the Union of Developed Nations – they had even gone as far as promising him assistance – but then war was over and the portals closed before any action could be taken. But this had left Tarik with the hope that he could himself achieve inter-dimensional travel, for himself and for his world. It does not matter if others have done the same as he has: there are empty worlds enough to go around.

While Tarik has been standing around musing on the past and future of his success, his companions have taken the time to explore their immediate surroundings. There is not much to explore, however: the landscape is impressive, but rather plain. There is a lot of insect life here: though none of them noticed it at first, there is a constant background hum of insect-noises.

Laila has succeeded in finding one of these seemingly invisible but highly audible life-forms: a rather large cricket-like creature that appears to live inside the sand. She manages to coax one into crawling onto her hand, watching as it folds and unfolds thin, membranous wings from its yellow-brown body. She lifts her hand to her eye to get a better look, but the movement startles the creature and it jumps of and disappears in an instant.

Robert has been inspecting the trees – they are indeed gigantic ferns, with huge leafy fronds curling off of their thick brown trunks. Robert gently snaps the end of one of the 'branches' and places it in his shirt pocket. If nothing else, it can be a souvenir.

Ultimately, though, there is little that they can actually achieve in this world, and the humid warmth is beginning to get uncomfortable. So, slightly reluctant to have to go but also relieved, the three scientists return through the window they have created. None of them have spoken much while they were in that other world – they were too absorbed in their surroundings. Now back in the world they know, they are all desperate to discuss their success.

"Well!" Robert says, wiping off the sweat that has accumulated beneath his dark fringe. "I'd say I owe everybody a drink!"

Tarik laughs, remembering that his colleague – the head of the engineering team who had built the portal device itself - had bet him that something would have to go horribly wrong with their mechanism and they would be back at square one. Robert is not a pessimist, but after years of working on the development of this, it is still hard to believe they have been successful.

**. . . . .**

There are several cafés within the institute in which Tarik works, but these would not be able to supply what Robert has in mind. While the use of religious law had ceased completely throughout the U.D.N over two centuries ago, a few traditional – cultural – limitations remain in law, and prohibition of alcohol is one of these. Even here, in Al-Massala, with its large Frankish cultural influence, there is a ban on any intoxicating beverages being sold in and around most workplaces. Being a Frank himself, Robert has no inhibitions towards alcohol, and Tarik, despite his Arabic heritage, is happy to admit that he too has a weakness for the occasional drink.

The three scientists leave the lab area, signing out as they do so – it will be noted that they have left before their workday usually ends, but this isn't a problem: so long as nobody makes a habit of slacking off, people at the scientific institute tend to be free to come and go as they please. Tarik leaves instructions with security to make sure that nobody goes near the testing area.

They have left the portal open – the amount of electricity that is required to open such a portal is quite phenomenal, and there is no reason to put additional stress on the lab's generators by continually opening and closing portals. Of course, if they were to open a portal to a different world, they would have to close the existing one and reconfigure the machine, since it can only open one portal at a time, and so far there is only one of its kind in existence. Once the technology is deemed to be tried and tested, more of these machines are likely to be developed, but for now the one they have built will have to do for completing this 'trying and testing'.

With Robert in the lead, the three walk down the pathway as the traffic zooms by beneath their feet. In modern cities like Al-Massala, all buildings tend to have entrances on two levels, one above for people on foot, and one below for those travelling by magnetic hover-car. Less developed parts of the world still have walkways on either side of the street. Both of these systems work, but one is far more efficient than the other.

The café to which Robert leads them is a pleasant, up-market place, the path in front kept clean and tidy, and on the other side there is a wide wooden deck with a view of the waterfront. It is on this deck that they find a table. Robert goes to the bar and orders a bottle of wine – something expensive, from Andalus – for himself and for Tarik. He offers the same to Laila, but she politely declines, and asks him to get her fruit juice instead. Robert shakes his head, with mock-hopelessness, but does not comment. Laila is entitled to her beliefs and practices.

The three friends spend a long time discussing the effects their success will have, what it will mean for them, and what they might do to improve the design of the mechanism. They share stories about past experiences and events during the long years they have spent working on developing 'inter-dimensional travel'.

The full team that has been involved in the research and development of this technology is far larger than this trio, but only they have been intimately involved in the project for its entire duration, and the lion's share of the glory will go to them. This is something they can be proud of, and will be remembered for forever.

As the midday turns to golden afternoon, and the clouds are alight with the slowly descending sun, the conversation has died down somewhat, having moved away from the subject of their work long ago. The bottle of wine is standing half-full on the table, the other half being inside Robert and Tarik. Tarik is actually managing to doze off, as Robert is recounting a film he recently watched, when suddenly he is startled into wakefulness.

His tele-com implant is ringing with a sound that only he can hear, alerting him to the fact that someone is trying to call him. Tarik's friends look puzzled for a moment before they realise what it is. Tarik is already receiving his call. The other two watch as a look of concern passes over his face, rapidly turning to outright alarm.

"We'll be there right away!" He replies, holding his hand to the little switch below his ear. Then he turns to his colleagues.

"I can't understand half of what he was babbling, but something's gone wrong. With our lab. Something very wrong." Tarik stands even as he speaks, and, feeling a little light-headed from the drink, quickly swallows one of the little tablets that were provided with the bottle. That will negate the effects of the alcohol, although he will feel rather sick in the morning as a result. But this is urgent, and he can't afford to be tipsy.

**. . . . .**

Within a minute of receiving the call Tarik is already running back down the route they took from the institute, with Laila and Robert close behind. As they approach the entrance to the laboratory building, they are met by one of the security guards they spoke to earlier. The man is as deathly pale as he can possibly be, considering his dark skin. He stammers something, but no one can understand, not even the speaker. He is just talking to reassure himself that he still can.

As they enter through the electronic doors, Tarik bumps straight into the other security guard. He takes a step back, and is about to apologise, when he realises that she hasn't even reacted. She is just standing there, lifeless. No, not lifeless – she is still breathing. But that is all. Laila approaches the woman and passes her hand back and forth in front of her face. There is no reaction. The woman's eyes remain empty and unfocused.

With Laila still in front, they take a few steps further down the hall. Tarik swallows audibly as he spots a second person in the far corner of the hall, curled up with his head held in his hands. He is as inanimate as the first. They find more victims in an adjoining room. Most are people they know; minor members of the development team. Altogether there are six people who have fallen victim to this mysterious threat.

They are now outside the door that leads onto the testing rooms. As Tarik is about to open the door (it requires a retinal id scan), he is suddenly tackled to the ground from behind. It is the security guard, the living one, who they passed earlier, and he is no less hysterical than before.

"D – don't g- go in there!" He stammers, wrestling to keep Tarik away from the optic scanner. He is pretty successful, too – as a member of the security personnel, being strong and tough are among the major requirements for the job – but together Robert and Laila manage to pull him away. Tarik is now unsure whether he does want to open the door, however – perhaps whatever... did _that_ to those people is inside.

"Did you see what attacked the people here?" Robert asks the guard. Seeing that Tarik is not about to open the door, the man relaxes a little.

"It – it looked like _fog_. P - pillars of _fog_. There were three – two – no, three of them. They came out of nowhere and attacked and... it's like they _ate _part of them, they took part of them away..."

"And these... fog creatures." Robert asks sceptically. "Are they through there?"

"Yes - no, no, not anymore. They were destroyed. Destroyed by a – a..." The man seems unable to speak further. But, Tarik reasons, if this thing destroyed whatever the 'fog' was, then it is probably not going to be hostile to them. He quickly turns and activates the scanner, before the guard can protest. The door seems to take forever to slide open. Tarik looks through, wondering what sight will confront him. But there is nothing.

Nervously, Tarik and Laila walk through into the testing station. Robert is still crouching in the doorway, trying to calm the frenzied guard. Looking through the polymer screen, they see that the portal is still open. But there is no sign of whatever it was the guard was afraid of. Then, suddenly, something moves – flies – in through the portal, and through the electronic door. Behind them, the security guard mutters something unintelligible. The shape, that at first seemed only to be a patch of light, comes to a halt in front of them, and in the dim light Tarik can make out its form. He cannot believe his own mind, for it can only register the being now standing before him as something he never thought could exist. It is an _angel_.

Tarik does not know what to think. Behind him, Laila stays frozen in half-step, staring at the lighted figure in utter awe. Robert is also dumbstruck, and he withdraws his hand from the shoulder of the security guard, who collapses to the floor, not unconscious but close to it.

Tarik regains control of his mental faculties. Is this an angel? Of course not. It must be some kind of projection, designed to impress more gullible people than himself. It certainly looks insubstantial. He bets that if he reaches to touch it, his hand would go right through...

Before he can move to test his theory, the being speaks. Tarik is briefly returned to a state of dumb wonder. The voice with which it speaks is... indescribable. To his amazement, Tarik cannot even decide what language the angel is speaking in. But he can understand the words regardless. He almost finds himself believing, just for a brief moment.

"My name is Zaphaiel" the angel states. "I come with a warning, and a commandment." Nobody dares to answer, except Tarik.

"Oh?" He asks, with scepticism intentionally thick in his voice, as if to say 'of course I know this is a sham, but let's hear it anyway'. Sometimes so much can be implied with just one word and the manner in which it is delivered. The 'angel' certainly picks up on this.

"I can see that you are unsure whether to believe my words." He – if indeed it is a he – says calmly. "But that does not matter, if you are a reasoning man. The warning is this: your machine is remarkable. It allows for travel between worlds. This is something attempted by countless people in countless worlds and achieved by very, very few. Many methods have been attempted, and all are fatally flawed. Yours is no exception."

Tarik is genuinely interested now. Whoever is using this image to communicate with him seems to know what they are talking about. More than he knows himself, certainly. Without pause, the angel continues:

"There are two major problems with what you would call 'inter-dimensional travel'. The first is that when you breach the space between worlds, you cause Dust to leak into the void between the worlds, where it is lost forever..."

"Dust? What do you mean, dust?"

"It has many names. Dust, Shadows, Dark Matter – all names of the mind's invention, labels for something it does not understand. Tiny particles, conscious matter, that allow for the existence of conscious beings like yourselves. And myself. I am Dust."

The scientists now know what the angel is speaking of. These particles are critical in the process of opening the portal to another world: they have to split them apart to create the energy required to open the gate.

"You call these particles Type-10 matter, but more commonly refer to them as 'sparks'." Then, noticing and understanding the amazed looks on the scientists' faces, he adds: "Yes, we know a lot about you. We have been keeping close watch on your actions here."

"So it would seem" Tarik replies. "Knowing the importance of sparks in maintaining conscious thought, I can see that were they to be drained away the consequences for sentient life could indeed be drastic. But you mentioned another problem?"

"Yes. You have seen what has happened to some of your colleagues, have you not?"

"Reduced to a mindless state." Tarik says, matter-of-factly, "That man over there" - he gestures toward the security guard - "says that they were attacked by what he called a 'pillar of fog'... or something."

"They are called specters" the angel explains. "At least, that is the label _they_ are most commonly given. They are born of the void between the worlds. They are malevolent entities, that consume the souls of conscious beings."

"Yes, their _souls_, I see..." Tarik says - he is beginning to tire of this kind of nonsense. He is a firm believer in reason, and he has no more reason to believe in the existence of souls than he has the existence of angels. But whatever they do consume, these 'specters' are certainly a threat. So he asks: "And how exactly are these 'specters' created. You say they are 'born of the void'. How can that happen? And how can they be conscious?"

"A simple explantaion is that when one cuts the barrier that separates the world, it is torn, and small pieces of the abyss are torn and set loose upon the world. Even the most precise tool cannot avoid creating one of these each time it is used. And _that_" - The angel nods at the array of machinery visible through the screen - "Is by no means a _precise_ tool. When you used it, you created a whole multitude of specters."

Tarik feels more than a little insulted to have the result of fifteen years of his dedicated work described so dismissively as a crude 'tool'. Though he does not actually say anything, the angel seems to understand his very thoughts.

"Do not feel so dejected. As I said earlier, the fact that your machinery performs it intended task is already an astonishing feat. But for all it's complexity, in some ways it is vastly inferior to a simple knife... In other ways it is superior. Your machine takes no thought or concentration on the part of the operator, for one. But know that your machine is as efficient a tool for inter-dimensional travel as a... a carving-knife would be, for a surgical operation." The angel struggles to find an analogy that these people could understand.

"So you're saying we... we created those things that attacked our colleagues? But... where are they now? What happened to these... specters?" Tarik is horrified by the thought that they themselves are responsible for the hideous fate that has befallen those people, and equally horrified to think it might happen to him, too.

"We – angels that is – destroyed them. But do not think that this is easy for us. It is very draining on us to combat the specters. We cannot be expected to be able to destroy each one as it is created, if you were to continue to use your machine.

Now it is Leila who speaks. Like Robert, she has been listening silently and letting Tarik speak, but now she has a question to ask of the angel:

"You said that you have been monitoring our progress for some time, haven't you? If this is so, and if you knew, why didn't you warn us? Or at the very least, destroyed the specters before they could harm anyone? How could you... consign those poor people, to suffering the death of their souls?" Her own accusatory tone shocks her, since at the same time she remembers she is speaking with a being that deserves the highest reverence. To her relief, the angel does not seem to take offense.

"If we had warned you, would you have listened? Many of the people of this world – your project leader here included – are hardly what might be called 'god-fearing' people. Now _I_ believe this is a good thing, but it _can_ also be a cause for an unreasonable unwillingness to accept the truth. You needed an example of what the specters can do. That was why we waited. You must learn in a way that you will not forget."

Tarik would be angry at this, but he realises, with no small measure of guilt, that the being is probably correct. He could hardly have gone to his superiors and tell them that a divine power had told him to stop this research. They would have thought him mad, and rightly so.

He is still sceptical about all this talk of angels and specters, but he is beginning to realise that there could be perfectly rational explanations for the existence of such things, if only he could think of them. There is no such thing as divinity, but that does not mean that angels could not exist as creatures of matter – or Dust.

"Now that you know the full consequences of your discovery, I must issue my command, and it is simple: Do not continue to pursue this research. Do not continue to use this device. Destroy it, and any plans that could lead to it being constructed again. With that said, my task here is over."

Before anybody can say or do anything more, the angel seems to shimmer, and disappear. The four people just stay where they are, confused. Maybe it was a hologram after all, thinks Tarik, but he is not so sure anymore.

"Well!" it is Robert who breaks the silence. "That's pretty definitive, isn't it? I guess we have no choice. I don't know how we'll be able to explain this, though. But if that – angel – was speaking the truth – and I am quite certain it must have been – then for the sake of all of us, we must abandon this before it gets further out of hand."

Laila agrees. She is religious enough to know a divine command when she receives one. Tarik is less inclined to believe the 'angel', but even so, it makes too much sense to just ignore. He realises that if the angel had possessed any 'divine' power, it would have been able to end their work itself, rather than having to ask for their cooperation. For, despite the dignified tone of its delivery, that was what it had amounted to: a plea to them to resolve the problems they have created. Ultimately, a plea too desperate to be ignored.

**. . . . .**

It is late in the evening and Tarik is sitting by himself in a public hover-car, travelling in the direction of his home. Their portal remains open in the laboratory, but they have decided they will close it tomorrow and dismantle the equipment. As it is, there was a lot to explain to the authorities: the mindless specter victims, the traumatised guard – they could not mention the angel, but they did give a brief explanation that 'there was a critical failure in their experiment' that had had unforeseen consequences of drastic proportions. That would be reason enough for them to shut down the project.

It is painful to Tarik when he considers that only hours after experiencing the euphoria of having achieved his dreams, he finds them suddenly torn down. The facts are plain: there must be no travel between worlds. It is some small consolation, at least, that for a few precious minutes he has stood on the sands of another world. He is, despite everything, an inter-dimensional traveller. But all that he will have to satisfy his dreams will be a memory.

Tarik is so deep in his melancholy that he nearly misses his stop. Luckily, he is such a frequent passenger on the transport line that one of the other passengers who knows him well alerts him to the fact that the car has stopped in front of his residence. He programmed his stop into the driving computer when he paid his fare, but the computer only waits for so long at a stop before driving on.

He thanks his helpful acquaintance for reminding him, and he disembarks, looking forward to a good, long, relaxing evening. There will be plenty of mindlessly entertaining films on the television, which is good for once: he doesn't want to think, just to be able to forget all his concerns for a few hours.

Just as Tarik is reclining in a well-cushioned chair with a cup of sweet coffee in his hand, and about to issue a command to his television set, a sharp ringing startles him up again. He reaches for his earpiece, but he has turned it off, and he recognises that the ringing is of a different tone: this is his doorbell instead. Grumbling, he gets to his feet, sets down his coffee, and walks into the hall. "Open!" he calls into the speaker near the door. He hopes this will not take long.

Standing in the doorway are two pretty ordinary-looking men. Tarik greets them, as politely as he can manage given the disturbance they have caused him.

"Do excuse us if we come at an inconvenient time" the closest of the two men says, far more politely than Tarik, though he is sure he can detect a trace of menace in that friendly voice. Maybe he is just paranoid after his long and stressful day. "You are Tarik Nasser ibn Ali, are you not?" Tarik nods in confirmation.

"We come to speak to you in the name of God and His prophet." The man continues. Ah, Tarik thinks, he was right to distrust them. "Close" He says to the speaker with a distinct tone of satisfaction in his voice. Being able to close the door in this man's face might just make his day better again. But the door does not close.

"We strongly advise that you listen to what we have to say." The menace in that voice is now as clear as daylight, and the speaker is making no attempt to conceal it.

**. . . . .**


	3. THREE: Pursuit

THREE

**Pursuit**

**. . . . .**

It is getting close to lunchtime, and Samantha hasn't had anything to eat since yesterday - in her excitement to leave this morning she forgot entirely about breakfast. She hasn't slept nearly as much as she usually does, either, and this only adds to her hunger. Well, she decides, hurrying too much now won't make any difference, since she'll probably have to wait once she gets to Central Station for a train to London. The trains are supposed to leave every half-hour, but Samantha knows she can't be completely sure.

She decides to have lunch. She could wait till she's on the train, but right now she feels a little weak and is getting easily exhausted, which will do her no good whatsoever. Deciding that the food she's packed with her isn't particularly appetising at the moment (she has only brought some fruit, and a packet of crackers), so instead she finds a café nearby and goes to the counter. They have ready-made sandwiches, and that will do fine for her. She buys two – one with egg, one with some salad mix – and sits at an empty table by the window.

Nobody is surprised to see a little girl walking around by herself – it is a Saturday, and kids typically go to places by themselves. She can go by practically unnoticed, which is all for the best. Once people find out that she is 'missing', it will probably become a lot harder for her, so she decides to try and get as far as she can before it reaches that stage.

**. . . . .**

"The house is still empty" Jacob reports. "But there's a lot of stuff messed about – it looks like someone's been through the place looking for something. Made more of a mess than we did, certainly."

Jacob and Michael are standing at the front door of the Coombs' residence. They had found the door still unlocked, and Jacob has been inside to try and find the girl, or at least some indication of where she has gone.

"Could be the girl came back to get something herself, before running off. Of course she isn't going to hang around here, not if she's got any sense. The question is, where has she run off _to_? We can be pretty sure by now that she hasn't talked to the police – or they'd be all over this place..."

"Maybe she knows someone else who wants the disc. Her mother's fellow heretics. There's bound to be more than just her."

"Do you really think that that child would know who her mother dealt with? Even the priests are unaware of Allison Coombs' contacts, if she has any. If she can keep a secret that well, she would know better than to tell it to her daughter!"

"You're probably right. But then we're still no closer to tracking the girl down."

In his heart, Michael is unsure if he even wants to track the girl down. Can it really be God's will that he kill a child? He does not tell this to Jacob, of course: He knows that his friend is concerned about his lack of faith. But he must still work on the task to which he has been appointed.

"Lets look around, then, and see if there is any clue about where she might've gone" He says. "Luke!" He calls to the third man, who is sitting at the wheel of the van parked nearby. "You keep an eye out and warn us if the cops come, alright?"

"Uh huh" Luke replies in his usual deep voice.

Within five more minutes Jacob finds the piece of paper with Edward's phone number on it, left lying on the little table in the hall, next to the phone. He remembers what they have been told of Samantha's brother – could she be trying to reach him? Yes, that seems quite likely. He is the only close relative that Samantha has in England, and he might well know more about his mother's files.

Jacob tells this to Michael, who agrees. Edward is living in London. If that's where there target is headed, how will she get there? By bus? No, there is no direct bus route, it's far too far for that. Michael remembers seeing a leaflet with times for the East Coast Main Line lying about, clearly having been read recently. That is it - she would probably take the train. So their next step must be to follow the route from here to the Central Station in the middle of town. The men have all seen photographs showing exactly what their target looks like: Average height for her age, slight build, mid-length light brown hair. They can recognise her on sight. Either they will find the girl along the way, or they will have to follow her on the train. But they will find her, sooner rather than later.

**. . . . .**

Samantha finishes her sandwiches and then proceeds towards the the nearest metro station, where she was heading before she realised how hungry she was. She could probably walk from here to Central Station – she knows the central city well enough to find her way, and it mightn't take much longer than waiting at the underground – but she reasons that that way she has to walk less. She is still tired, despite her meal.

Samantha heads down the stairs into the station. She buys a ticket at the booth: the woman there eyes her curiously for a moment when she pays with a ten-pound note, but says nothing. Samantha actually has enough loose change on her from buying the sandwiches, but she is still rather unfamiliar with currency, and she doesn't want to spend a long time counting out coins. That would certainly attract attention, and probably irritate the people waiting behind her in the queue. Ticket in hand, she proceeds through the turnstile and down toward the platform.

Just as Samantha disappears down the flight of stairs, a tall, lean man with blond hair enters the queue. He has been following her for a while, but making sure not to alert her to his presence. He has no idea that if she saw him at all, she could actually recognise him at once, but luckily for him, she is too concentrated on reaching her destination. To his mind, it is God that is helping him on his task, as He was when Luke happened to spot her exiting a café as they drove past. Maybe God does want him to catch this child after all.

Samantha is standing on the platform of the underground tunnel. The cold light is reflected all around on the grimy, white tiled surfaces of the floor and walls. She does not have to wait long: the next train is only about a minute away. Then it comes, preceded by the glow from its headlights and the screeching of its wheels on the tracks, and she joins the crowd of people waiting to get on board. As it is the middle of the day, there are fewer passengers, but there are still enough people heading into town for her to feel lost among them as they tower over her.

Grabbing hold of the yellow-painted bar, she hoists herself through the door and into the carriage. Just as she puts her foot inside she feels strong fingers tightening around her arm. In amongst all the people entering the carriage, she cannot see who it is, but she knows immediately that the grasp is intentional, and she guesses whoever it is intends to do her harm.

She immediately tries to struggle loose, first trying to pull her arm away and then trying to wriggle it free of the hostile grip. But the hand holds firm, and only tightens in response to her resistance. The crowd has now dissipated, as people move to find places to sit or stand, and Samantha can now get a good look at her assailant. He is wearing dark clothing – just a shirt and trousers – and over that he is wearing a brown coat. But as she registers the features of his face she falters. She recognises this man: he was at her house the night before, the one in charge. The man who kidnapped her mother.

Quickly regaining her sense, she struggles all the harder, but to no avail. Still, neither of them has said a word. The spectacle is attracting attention from the other passengers, however. They are unsure what to make of it, but suppose it must be a domestic incident.

"_Let go_ of me!" Samantha cries, with exactly the kind of tone that a child might use when complaining to a parent. This is a mistake, because her assailant seizes on this.

"Now just you wait, missy! You stop that silliness at once and sit down!" The man says, as if reprimanding her. People immediately 'understand' what is happening, and feel sympathy towards the exasperated parent with his misbehaving child, and do not get involved. Samantha continues to protest incoherently as the man directs her to an empty seat and sits down alongside her, still holding her arm. The train starts with a jolt and moves on.

A woman standing nearby is worried that the man is grasping the girl so strongly that he might bruise her arm. As if realising this concern, Michael releases the girl's arm. He is sitting between her and the aisle, so she can't run anywhere now. At the next stop he will lead her off again and take her to the van where Jacob and Luke are waiting. Everything is going smoothly. He delivers a silent prayer of thanks to God for helping him in doing His work.

Samantha has been watching her captor closely for every second, and as his mind momentarily focuses on thanking the Lord, she can see his attention drift away from her. Seizing the chance as it comes, she reacts immediately. She drives her now freed elbow hard into the man's stomach. Caught off guard, his only reaction is to cry out and hold his hands to his aching abdomen. Samantha wastes no time: she jumps up from her seat, practically rolls over the man, and speeds down the aisle, frantically pulling open the door to the next carriage.

Michael is winded, but quickly recovers, and also leaps to his feat. He is too tall, though, and he bumps his head against the bag rack that runs above him. He snarls in frustration – at the girl, at himself, even at God for letting him do something so stupid – and blunders onward after his fleeing prisoner. The other passenger look on, bemused. As before, they decide not to get involved.

Samantha is already at the end of the next carriage when the man enters it behind her – but with his long legs his strides are much greater than hers, and he is gaining quickly. They are running in the opposite direction to the one the train is heading, toward the tail end, and the confused movement is making them both feel sick – all the worse for Micheal, who is still recovering from the assault he so recently received. Samantha gets the next door open and heads down the next aisle, swerving aside to avoid another passenger who has just stood up. But this is the end of the train- she can run no further. She is trapped.

Michael is only a few paces behind her, but he does not stop in time to avoid colliding with the figure who just stood up in front of him. As it turns out, the obstructing person is a sturdily built young man, and as Michael hits him at high speed, it is as if he has just run headlong into a brick wall. He staggers back, cursing words that would upset his own religious sensibilities if he could only understand what he was saying. His expletives gain response in kind from the young man, whose annoyance turns to confusion as he looks back and forth from the tall figure stumbling in front of him to the little girl behind him who is cowering against the sealed rear door, trying to keep the stranger between herself and her pursuer.

At this point the train stops at the next station - Monument Station, on the square. Samantha bolts past the two men occupying the aisle, moving too fast for either of them to react. She heads out the doors even as they are opening, and pounds down the tiled surface towards the exit, paying no attention to the shouts behind her. Completely breathless, Samantha reaches the top of the concrete stairs, and looks out into the busy square.

Nearby, Charles Grey stands motionless atop the daunting heights of his column, as it towers into the cloudy winter sky. Samantha walks over to the column's platform, and leans against it, recovering her breath. She has no idea who Grey was, but the Monument is a familiar landmark, and she knows this area – the main commercial district – very well. She is quite close to central station. She just needs to head down Grainger street, past the market, and continue on. That should take her almost directly to the train station.

Just as she decides upon the course she will take, she hears shouting from the stairs behind her. She looks to see the tall man yelling directions into his cellphone. Panicking, Samantha runs as fast as she can across the square, down a street – not Grainger street, as she had intended, but towards Grey street. It is a less direct route, but she can still find her way, as long as she can get away from that evil man...

Tall buildings loom on either side as Samantha sprints down the pavement, dodging other pedestrians moving at slower, more leisurely paces. She rushes headlong across a street, not even considering the possibility of being hit by traffic. In fact, it's amazing she isn't.

She passes the massive colonnaded front of the Theatre Royal on her left, without even noticing. She crosses more streets. Onward, further onward... By now she is more exhausted than she can ever remember being in her whole life, but at the same time she doesn't even think about it, just keeps on running. She can't keep it up for much longer. Her feet are sore, her legs are sore, and her rucksack is weighing heavily on her back. She sees a narrow alleyway open between the tall buildings just ahead of her. Almost instinctively she darts around the corner.

Samantha is rudely shocked for a moment: there is a wall cutting across the alley, but she quickly realises there is a simple wooden gate in it. Samantha pushes this open. Her heart sinks. Another dead end – a real dead end this time, as alley is surrounded on all sides by buildings, with back doors opening onto it. Perhaps one of those is can be opened, and she can get through... she tries the nearest door. It is firmly locked. She tries another one, but that is locked too. Samantha can hear footsteps pounding in the alleyway behind her. She hammers desperately on the door, hoping someone will hear, and open it – but there is no response. The house is empty.

Samantha sets her pack down. There is still one option left. She rummages around inside and, carefully, takes out the pistol. She has never fired anything more than a water pistol in her life, and she really does not want to change that now. But this is her only chance. She pulls back the slider on top, as she has seen done in action movies. She remembers she loaded the clip in when she packed the gun, but checks just to make sure. The gun is cocked and ready. Samantha stands, hands outstretched, trembling, pointing the thing in the direction of the gate. The gate swings open. Samantha presses her forefinger down on the trigger.

The fact that Samantha had no idea how hard it was for her small fingers to actually pull the trigger, and consequently did not put nearly enough force into it to actually fire, has consequences so critical that in time to come, Samantha will only just begin to realise how much relied on her failing to fire. For this little misjudgment gives her enough time to focus her sight on the figure standing ten meters away, horrified at how close he is to being shot.

It is not the tall blond man in the brown coat who stands in front of her. It is the young man she briefly saw on the train, the one who had innocently stood in the way of her pursuer and saved her from being caught. As he stands in front of her, hands half-raised in an attempt to convince her not to shoot, she recognises his strong build. And those are the same clothes – grey jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt with a little Adidas logo on it. It's certainly the same man, and Samantha has no idea what he is doing here.

"You aren't actually going to shoot me." He says, relaxing. This is a statement, not a question, and Samantha realises, quite suddenly, that he is right. Even if he was the the tall blond man, her enemy, she could not bring herself to try and kill him. Before she saw him, she had tried to fire, almost as a reflex. Now, actually looking at the human being, she can't bring herself to thinking about killing him - it goes so completely against her conscious thought that she is amazed she was even able to think about it before. She drops her hand to her side, the gun hanging loosely in her fingers.

The man approaches her in a few quick strides. He knows that the other man, the one chasing this girl, was only some thirty meters behind him, and in the few long seconds since he came through the gate the man will have almost reached it himself.

"Pass that here." He commands the girl. Frightened, unsure of whether to trust this man, unsure of what he means to do, and really just unsure in general, all Samantha can think to do is obey. She hands him the gun without comment. He looks at it for a second, holds it in his outstretched hand, just as he'd seen the girl do a moment earlier. He is trembling nearly as much as she was, although she cannot see it. He has never held a loaded gun before either. The same thought that struck Samantha keeps going through his head. He knows the problem that the usual human conscience has with willfully killing somebody in cold blood. To his great surprise - and some small measure of horror - he realises that he himself _is_ prepared to kill.

The gate swings open for a third time. The tall blond man comes through, followed by another. Both are carrying rifles. Well, it's not cold blood anymore, anyway, the man thinks. He fires the pistol, twice. The shots ring out and echo around the enclosed space so loudly that everyone is momentarily deafened. The man in front convulses as both bullets slam home into his right arm, the one holding the gun. The weapon drops with a clatter to the ground as the man himself screams out loud like a wounded animal. Which, in fact, he is.

The young man had been aiming for the chest, but his aim was off, and he mentally curses his inaccuracy. To the little girl standing behind him, the result seems to be a brilliant master shot, an amazing feat of marksmanship, that he managed to disarm his opponent without killing him. Regardless of how the action is perceived, the effect is the same. The injured man falls backwards, collapsing into his companion who stops halfway in the process of shouldering his rifle to catch his friend.

Samantha grabs her ally's arm and points to the lock on the door behind her. The man understands and quickly shoots several bullets into it. That is also something Samantha has seen done in movies, and obviously this man as well. Whether this trick always works, or they just got lucky this time, Samantha is able to push the door open and the mismatched pair stumble through as fast as they can, Samantha picking up her rucksack as she goes.

Her pursuers have given up now; The third man has arrived on scene, and he hastily helps bear the injured man towards a van parked nearby. A crowd is gathering to the scene, drawn by the sound of gunfire. None of those involved have any particular desire to speak to the police, who are no doubt already on their way – and the station is very close by, too, so there is every reason to hurry.

Racing through the building, heading as quickly as they can in what they can only hope is the right direction, Samantha and her mysterious ally dart through rooms, not even registering their surroundings, until... there. They reach what must be the front door. Through a window beside it they can see the pavement and street outside. Traffic, both pedestrian and automobile, is continuing as it normally should. They will easily be able to slip away.

But to where? On to the train station? No, it would be too risky – even if nobody has given the police a description of the little girl they saw running past, and who disappeared into the alleyway right before the shooting, there is always the possibility that her pursuers themselves would be waiting for her there, or on the train... And also, she supposes she cannot just shrug herself free of this other man now- each has questions to ask of the other, but the man is too sensible to start a conversation now with the inevitable police squad so close behind and a clear trail leading to this house.

The man carefully unlocks the front door from the inside – extremely relieved that there is no deadlock – and leads Samantha outside, moving deliberately but with suitable laziness, as if he were performing an everyday activity. He closes the door behind them, and they head down the pavement, side by side, with Samantha unconsciously following the man to whatever his destination. And now they properly speak to each other for the first time.

"Now that I have just got myself involved up to here" – the man waves his hand over his head emphatically – "in something I don't understand, I would very much like to know what this is about. Just please tell me I haven't made a bloody stupid mistake!"

Samantha is rather taken aback by the man's harsh tone, but she can understand that he is rather disturbed. What she can't understand is why he was there to help her in the first place. She also notes that this man's accent – or from his point of view, a lack of one – clearly marks him as not being from around Tyne-and-Wear or Northumberland, but from the south. But Samantha makes no comment on that as she tries to explain.

"My name's Samantha. Or just Sam." That's always a good place to begin. "And you didn't make a bad mistake, really, you probably saved me." If the man is relieved by these words he does not express it. "Those men, they're evil, they took my mum, and they tried to take me-"

"I gathered that they meant you no good," he replies. "I wouldn't have gone on that cross-country marathon after you if I didn't think it was serious. But what – they 'took' you're _mother_? What the hell is this all about?"

So, as they walk, Samantha tries to recount what happened the previous night. After a little hesitation, she also mentions the disc. She decides that either she can trust this man, or she's lost. He seems able to help her, and conversely, he might not let her go without a full explanation. She says where she is going and why. He listens in silence, his only reaction being to slow his pace to a walk, in order to allow Samantha more breath to speak.

"That is about the craziest story I've ever heard outside of a novel." He says, once her recount is finished. "And if I hadn't seen those nuts with my own eyes I wouldn't be inclined to believe it." He pause a moment, thinking. "You said that those men called your mum a heretic. That would imply they oppose her on religious grounds." There is a pause as the man considers the possible scenario. "Ahh... What kind of beliefs did – does – your mother have?" he then asks.

Samantha stares at him with a puzzled look that perfectly expresses her thoughts. What does he mean, beliefs? Beliefs about what? She relays her question to him.

"You know, religion. Beliefs about god and all that."

Samantha knows a lot of people who belong to an organised religion, usually Church of England, but sometimes something else. Samantha cannot make any distinction between the different churches and sects – it is not something that has ever interested her. She herself has been brought up without any kind of religion. That some of her friends go to church every Sunday and she doesn't is just something she takes for granted.

"I don't know. None, I guess. Mum never said anything about a god."

"Atheist, then." The man smiles, as if he has been reassured. "I guess that suits me fine, though I've never got into a street-fight over _religion_ before."

Suddenly Samantha realises two things: She doesn't even know this man's name, and she still hasn't asked him the question that has really been bugging her. Before she can even ask anything the man already answers the first point.

"I'm Aidan" He says, then hesitates, as if he has forgotten his own name for a moment. Really he is wondering if it _is_ actually a good idea to say his name – what if the police were to find the girl, which, indeed, might be the best thing for her right now? Might she tell them about him shooting people? But he quickly decides that he's already got himself involved, so he can't exactly back out anyway. "Aidan Fielding" he finishes.

"What I was wondering about, Aidan, is why you came after me, too. You were the guy on the metro, weren't you? The one who the tall man bumped into? How come you followed me?"

Aidan rubs his forehead, grinning in a friendly way, and tells his side of the story:

"Yeah, that was me, and I had no idea what was going on, and I didn't actually car much up until you ran off at Monument Station. He pushed away from me and straight after you, not even trying to explain. I was getting off there anyhow, so of course I had to follow. I'd already drawn attention to myself. The man had got a phone out and was talking to someone even as he was running - and at the square he was met by another man, and this one was carrying rifles. In public. I don't think that's even legal.

"Now those blokes were pretty fit, but I'm still considerably faster, so all I could think to do was beat them to you. And I did. And I'm still not sure exactly what to think, but I'm pretty sure that that was a good thing."

By this stage they have reached another landmark Samantha recognises, the distinctive tower of the Saint Nicholas Cathedral, jutting up on the corner of the street. Samantha glances at it nervously as they walk by, thinking about what Aidan has just told her about her enemies. On the few occasions that she has met priests, she thought they were very nice, friendly people. She never thought that religious people would attack those who didn't agree with them. She decides there are probably different kinds of religious people. That seems true for every kind of faction people are divided into.

Samantha is wondering where exactly they are heading, but she is sure that Aidan has something in mind. She's keeping her guard up, but at the same time she is happy to trust him. As he said, he's on her side, an even if she's perfectly capable on her own, having grown-up help is invaluable. As it turns out though, he isn't completely sure of where he's going, either.

"Now," Aidan says, "Do you want to let the police help you, or not? I'm not going to decide for you, either way, though they _would_ keep you safe and could help you with finding your mother and brother and whatever else. But if you're going to them, we'd best part ways now – I've no wish to tangle with them myself."

"No," Samantha says decisively. "I'm going to Ed. I don't think the police can help, not with this."

Aidan stops in his tracks, clearly debating the matter with himself. Samantha halts as well, and waits for him, not sure what to expect.

"In that case, you should stick with me," Aidan declares. "I'll see how I can help you."

"Really?" Samantha asks, excited but uncertain. He's a strange man, although she feels she can trust him, but she can't understand why he would be rushing to help her like some fairytale knight. He probably has some reasons, though, she decides, important grown-up type reasons, and she doesn't want to question them. "So where are we going?" She finally asks. One thing is certain, she isn't just going to follow this man blindly. She is inquisitive by nature, and independent enough to want to make her own decisions.

"To the flat where I'm staying. I reckon you'll probably need help if you're planning to find this brother of yours, and not get caught by those bastards. If I'm going to help, though, I'll need more than the clothes on my back." Samantha notices the implication that Aidan is intending to accompany her. She has no complaints with that. "Though we should be taking a bus, really, it's a long way to walk."

"I'm not from around here, as you've probably noticed." Aidan says. "I was just visiting a friend here for a few days on my way up north... funny how I've managed to get myself into a mess even in so short a time." Despite the words he uses, Aidan seems unusually cheerful about having 'gotten into a mess'. At least, he seems perfectly willing to stay in the 'mess', rather than just walking away. Samantha supposes he might be sympathetic to her, but then, maybe he's just an adrenalin junkie, and this seems like an adventure to him. She can't be sure either way. She is a little suspicious, though, that he has so readily committed himself to helping her. Maybe he just doesn't have anything better to do with his time than helping little lost children, but that seems _highly_ unlikely.

Deciding that it will certainly be faster than walking the whole way, Aidan decides to backtrack a little, then turn towards Central Station. Samantha is confused. Didn't he say that he wanted to get some things ready from his friends' flat? Nevertheless, Samantha follows. This time he really does seem certain of his course.

As they proceed down the street in front of the station, Samantha realises that while Aidan is intending to catch a train it isn't the East Coast Main Line – only the metro. The metro, of course, passes through the station. That was, after all, how she was planning to get there before her run in with her enemies.

It is mid-afternoon now, and the sunlight is beginning to get a golden tinge as Samantha and Aidan get back on the metro line they so hurriedly left not long before. This time, there is no confrontation with the mysterious tall man, or his accomplices. He will suffer a long time from those gun-shot wounds, Aidan thinks. He almost sympathises with the man – but then he reminds himself that he was defending both himself and the girl. That man had it coming to him, and hopefully the setback will delay them long enough for Samantha to be able to reach London ahead of them.

The flat where Aidan's friend lives is not particularly flash: four rooms on the third story of an incredibly ordinary building. There must be hundreds of flats like it. They are greeted at the door almost immediately by a rather tired-looking man of similar age to Aidan – early twenties, she supposes. He is rather thin and has short, pale-orange hair. Samantha doesn't think he looks particularly friendly, but this preconception is pretty inaccurate, as most preconceptions tend to be. The man greets them drowsily and they go inside.

"Hey, Josh," Aidan says. "I've got a friend with me."

'Inside' is cheaply furnished, and about as tidy as one might expect of a twenty-year-old university student (that is, not at all). But it's warm, and no there is no damp - Newcastle tends to be dry. Samantha sits down in an arm chair, that bears several coffee stains on the cushion but is otherwise undamaged. Josh sits down as well, on the sofa, but Aidan stays standing, leaning against the wall. His friend begins:

"Aidan! sorry, mate I ahh... just got up. Late night last night, remember? I'm still a bit out of it."

"Considering that, I'm amazed you even got up at all. Now are you feeling alright or do we have to keep you away from bright lights and loud noises?" both men laugh. Samantha keeps quiet- she doesn't quite understand.

"Nah, nah, it's fine. Say, who's the kid? I didn't-"

"Trust me, mate," Aidan shakes his head. "I could tell you, but you would only regret knowing. I just need to get some things together. I'll be leaving shortly – I'm not sure for how long. Trust me, you're best off not knowing."

Josh scrunches his face up as he thinks for a moment, then says: "Fair enough, considering you – this isn't anything to do with your bloody commie friends, is it?"

Aidan grins. Josh never has taken a particular interest in politics. Aidan gave up with him long ago.

"No. Not this time. Hell, I'm just helping someone, cause or no. That's all."

"Right. Whatever. But you say you're just leaving? Now? Where to?"

"London. And yes..." Aidan glances at Samantha for confirmation. Samantha enjoys the fact that he isn't completely taking charge himself. She nods, and finishes his sentence.

"The sooner the better."

Aidan sets about packing a backpack of his – it is large, but not quite the kind of thing trampers use. He packs a spare change of clothes, some food (well, a block of chocolate and a big bag of corn chips, salsa flavour). He also packs most of things he brought with him to Newcastle in his suitcase, just leaving behind the rest of his clothes. London is only what- three hours away by train, so it isn't like he's going to be cut off from Newcastle. But he is isn't about to make a reliable prediction about how long this business will take.

"Samantha, can I see that disc for a moment?" Aidan asks. She opens her pack and carefully takes out the requested object, unwrapping it before handing it to Aidan. Josh stares at it.

"God, that's a bloody ZIP disc." Josh comments. "It's a long time since I've seen one of the damn things. I didn't know anyone still used them!"

"It's pretty old" Samantha replies.

"Yeah, I 'll bet. You know, you'll be hard pressed to find a computer that will read it..."

"Unless you have it." Aidan say to Josh. "You've got two computers lying around don't you? And one of them is pretty obsolete."

"Hah, you're right. But I took the ZIP drive out of it long ago. I'll try and dig it up for you. You know how to install these things?"

"No, but I'm sure we'll could easily find a computer technician. That wouldn't be a problem."

Finding the piece of hardware, however,_ is _rather a problem, but after several minutes of rummaging around in his bedroom, Josh returns with a rectangular object made of metal and plastic the colour of off-milk. It was probably white once. Josh also produces a box for it to fit in (actually the box belongs to something else, but it is the right dimensions) and Aidan packs that away.

Samantha checks her watch. It reads 4:12. It's less than four hours since she first got on the metro, but a lot has happened since then. A though occurs to her.

"Aidan, how are we going to get to London?" she asks.

"By train, I suppose. Isn't that what you were going to do?"

"Yeah, exactly. I don't know how, but those men seemed to know pretty well where I was going. I don't think it would be a good idea to try the same again. They might be waiting for us."

Aidan blinks. Damn, but that kid is a pretty good thinker. She reminds him a bit of his little sister. He likes that – he's been away from his family long enough to miss them occasionally.

"You're right" he says. In that case... Josh? Do you reckon I could ask you a big favour? A -" If Josh was sleepy before, this comment shocks him wide awake.

"Don't even think about it! If you think I would regret knowing what it is you're up to, and you're probably right about that, then I'm certainly not going to commit my baby to your crazy adventure!" His 'baby', Samantha suspects, is a car. Guys sometimes have a stupid way of getting attached to a piece of metal and plastic on wheels, she thinks.

"Don't worry man, it'll only be for a few days. Unless you have to go somewhere yourself..."

"No, but come on, it's my_ bike_! You might... I don't know. Damage it. Anyway, there's only one helmet, and it's too big for your little friend, here."

So it's a motorcycle then, Samantha thinks. She's never ridden one before, and she isn't sure she likes the idea of hanging on the back of a motorbike at all, but she can't see what difference a helmet would really make.

"I'll be fine." Samantha says, trying to sound as strong as possible. "Please can we borrow your bike? Aidan'll take care of it." She isn't nearly as familiar with Aidan as she is trying to sound, and she isn't sure if it is really fair to pressure this guy into lending his obviously prized vehicle, but it's certainly urgent. Josh looks at the little girl for a moment. The face she's putting on is really too sweet for him to refuse. He sighs in resignation.

"Fine, you can have it. Just make sure you get it back to me, alright? And in one piece."

"Cheers then." Aidan says, gratefully. "We really should get going, though, if we want to get to London by tomorrow."

Feeling very satisfied with themselves, Aidan and Samantha go out onto the road, and wait till Josh appears, wheeling out the bike, a shiny, black and silver Suzuki, a few years old but very well cared for. Josh checks the petrol, helps Samantha get on the back, and sees them off. He never will know quite what it is that was going on, but he doesn't really care. He just hopes the bike will make it back in one piece. Besides that, he'd rather not think about it.

And so it is that at 5:08, after making their way through the streets of the city that Samantha has lived her entire life in, they turn onto the A1, heading south, for London, and the one person Samantha hopes can unlock the secrets that she carries with her.

**. . . . .**

At the same time, several hundred kilometers away, one Edward Coombs is driving through suburban London. If he has ever harboured thoughts of saving the Republic of Heaven, they are certainly far from his mind now. He is picking up his girlfriend, whose house he currently shares, for a night out – they'll have dinner, go to see a movie, that sort of thing. It's Sunday tomorrow, so neither of them will be expected to get up early. This is the kind of life Edward is used to now, and he wouldn't trade it in for anything.

Standing in front of the door, he is about to let himself in when he is greeted by a short man, whose brown hair is beginning to turn grey. His round face bears a cheerful expression, as it always does. This is none other than his girlfriend's father, James Newburn. Her mother died several years ago, and despite being twenty, she still lives with her father. As does Edward, now. It's far better than the old flat, certainly, and Mr. Newburn is an amiable sort.

"Hello, Edward!" He says. "Natalie is still in the bathroom upstairs, she won't be long. You are going somewhere tonight, aren't you? Well, have a good time. I am just leaving myself. There's some kind of dinner on for the company officials."

Edward smiles, nods, and stands aside so that Mr. Newburn can proceed to the the garage. There is only space for one car inside, so Edward always parks on the road.

"Don't forget to make sure all the doors are locked, before you leave." Mr. Newburn calls back to Edward, as he walks off. Edward is unsure if it is a good idea, if one is so security-conscious, to so loudly declare that the house is going to be empty, but this is a respectable neighbourhood.

"Will do." Edward acknowledges, and then goes inside. Before he can mount the stairs he is greeted by Natalie, who is descending the stairs in front of him. She is wearing a casual dress – it's just another night in town together, nothing special – but to Edward's eyes she is still stunning. He reminds himself again how lucky he is to finally have a lasting relationship, and with such an attractive woman, too. He hasn't told her about his previous record with girlfriends, and London is a big place, so one can easily forget these things. Not that she should care, anyway.

They kiss briefly and then walk, hand in hand, out the door. As an afterthought, Edward remembers Mr. Newburn's warning, and makes sure the door is locked.

A little further down the road, there is an unmarked white van parked right up against the curb. Inside, the driver seems to be lost in a magazine that he is holding – a thoroughly unremarkable sight, except perhaps that the periodical in question is a local publication from the Tyne-and-Wear district, and of little relevance to a Londoner. But then, the 'driver' is not a driver at all, he is a priest; and he has no interest in the content of the magazine whatsoever.

Father Stefanski watches as Edward and his girlfriend drive off. There is no way into the house, but that is not his intention. He knows for sure now where Edward Coombs lives, and where his sister – who is carrying something of immense value to everyone – is likely to be headed. Now all he has to do is wait.

"He's left now" the priest calls to his two passenger, soldiers, who are mounted in the back of the van. "We might as well be going too. But stay ready for action, in case we do get the call from Father Geoffreys."

**. . . . .**

Father Geoffreys rubs his temples violently. Frustration only makes the headaches worse. He has not received a report from his soldiers in Newcastle, but he knows they have failed on their first attempt. He knows this for sure – just as he knows for sure that the girl has what he wants, and that she is headed for her brother in London. What he told Father Stefanski was not just supposition. He has a means for knowing the truth.

"You are sure about this, Brother Simon?" He asks this, even though he knows it cannot be anything besides the truth. The thin man, whose head is already bowed, as much in weariness as in humility, nods slowly.

"Then they will have to try again, that is all. And you are unable to tell me who it is that helped the girl escape?" Father Geoffreys asks.

"A man, a fighting man." The other replies. I am sorry, my... talents for reading the... device, are limited at best. I have spent twelve years studying it, but I have come to realise that even a lifetime would not be enough. If the one who brought it hadn't died..."

"He was old, and ill. And he was not of this world. At least he imparted as much knowledge as he could before he left us for heaven. Now, if you are not too tired, I would appreciate it if you could divine as much as you can about the girl and her accomplice."

The thin man is already very tired, but he decides he can at least try to learn more. He carefully scoops up the circular golden mechanism, and bearing it gently in both palms, he leaves Father Geoffrey's office.

Father Geoffreys' head is pounding incessantly, but he pushes the pain out of his mind as he begins a prayer to God. Last night, he showed weakness, and he chose to sleep, satisfying his own earthly needs instead of his devotion to God. He did not ask for the Lord's guidance for his soldiers, and as a result, they failed. He resolves not to be so weak again.

**. . . . .**

* * *

><p>Well, I did say I'd wait till readership is up, and it is still going pretty slow - but in respect to the few people who actually followed from the 1st to the 2nd chapter, I have decided to update anyhow. My particular appreciation to Deraptor, who posted a comment the day after the relaunch. Thank you for your support.<p>

... Do you think, maybe I should point out to those who haven't read this before that YES, the most popular pair from the original series WILL be making an appearance? Or is relying on the use of Will and Lyra to sell the story a little disingenuous, given they mostly take supporting roles?

-StarMan.


	4. FOUR: Faith Manages

FOUR

**Faith Manages**

**. . . . .**

_Why doesn't the door close?_ Tarik is thinking. As if in reply, the second man, who up till now has not moved at all, holds up his hand to reveal a little object, grey and rectangular, with several dials on it. Some kind of jamming device – Tarik really needs to get the speaker apparatus shielded, he reminds himself. But for now he has more to worry about. The men are still standing in the doorway, unmoving.

"I might remind you," Tarik tells them, "That preaching of any kind outside of a place of worship is considered an attempt at conversion, and is strictly illegal?" In truth, he doesn't actually think these people are coming to preach, but as long as he's talking, he is at least keeping them in place. "Such activities could get you fined..." he continues, with as threatening a tone as he can manage. "Or imprisoned, for that matter, if I am not your first _victim_."

"Don't be a fool." The first man growls. "We are not here to spread the faith as... peddlers. You will let us come in. There is something very important for us to discuss."

Realising that there is nothing he could do to stop these men were they to use force, and seeing no help arriving from the deserted street outside, Tarik reluctantly steps aside. He bows low and sweeps his hands dramatically through the air in a mocking gesture of welcome. Whatever these people want, it had better be important, and it had better have nothing to do with their 'faith'. People who travel around 'in the name of god' are, in Tarik's opinion, a public nuisance at the _best_ of times.

Tarik leads the men through to his living room, and sinks back into his chair. The other two stand politely, without the slightest indication that they expect Tarik to offer them a seat as well. He does not do so, anyway. He is aware that he is being grossly discourteous, but right now he couldn't care less; he sits silently and waits for his visitors to explain themselves. The first man begins.

"I am Ibrahim," he introduces himself. "My companion is Ahmet. He is a... holy man. Though I _realise_ you have no respect for such things. We understand – such views as you hold are not uncommon in these times..." He speaks in a quiet, pleasant voice. He would almost seem friendly if not for the aura of malice around him, an aura that cannot escape Tarik's perception. He has met many types of people in his life, and he can tell a lot about a person just from observing their expression and stance. It is hardly an innate ability; rather, a knowledge that has come from a lot of experience. Now, Tarik knows he certainly cannot trust this 'Ibrahim'. The other one, Ahmet, seems less offensive, but he has not yet spoken, and has kept in the background, so Tarik cannot know for sure.

He must keep these men on the defensive. Chances are that nobody will come to his aid, but there is no harm is buying time.

"And what exactly is it that you must speak to me about? Why do you force your way in? You should be careful – I could call the police in an instant." Tarik points to his tele-communication implant. It's not turned on, but there's no way these men can tell that, and anyway, it would only take a second to power up again.

"You seem to set a lot of store by the laws and their enforcers. You really think they can guarantee your safety?"

"They can certainly guarantee that you would be caught very quickly if you tried anything. They're a lot more efficient than they were thirty years ago, that's for sure."

"Indeed. Still, we have methods at our disposal to combat the enforcers, should we have to do so. I don't think you understand the reach of our influence, or power. We have allies more powerful than you might imagine."

"Unlikely," Tarik counters, drawing on his general knowledge, "No member of a religious congregation can be involved in the country's governance. That's been in the constitution for centuries. So you're influence can't be that great..." Tarik is less sure than he sounds, but he doesn't show that.

"Not in _this_ country, no." Ibrahim replies. "I won't say more than that; only a fool divulges information without restraint. But let us be certain of one thing: you are currently in _our_ power, make no mistake."

Tarik is beginning to grudgingly accept, to himself, that Ibrahim is probably correct. He certainly seems to know what he is talking about. Tarik has pretty strong suspicions now about the kind of group this man belongs to, but he won't ask. As Ibrahim just said himself, it would be foolish to show what he knows.

Now for the first time, the other man, Ahmet, comes forward to speak. He is slightly older than Ibrahim, but not by much: both of them are still quite young, around their forties, Tarik suspects. And like Tarik, both have feature typical of those of Moorish descent: dark hair, light brown skin, thick brows. But unlike Ibrahim, Ahmet's stance seems more relaxed, and his face is less of a mask. He speaks in a hoarser voice than his companion, and less friendly, but there is no sense of malice about him that Tarik can pick up on.

"You are involved in studying travel between different worlds. In fact, we are aware that you have headed a team that has developed a means to do just this."

Tarik is not surprised. This is common knowledge, at least among scientific and administrative circles. If these men have _any_ of the connections they claim, they should know plenty about his project.

"We are also aware that you succeeded in developing a device – a machine that creates a portal, as you call it – and that your first test of this was earlier today."

Tarik is now caught off guard.

"What? How did you -" Tarik trails off. Now he realises that Ibrahim probably wasn't exaggerating. These men have some informers in key positions, at least. Considering that most of the development team was unaware of the successful test – and the fact that those that were aware died soon after – these men must have informers among the authorities that Tarik reports to. He suspects that, since they do not hold the same views as these men, they have probably been bought over: almost everybody is corruptible, for the right price. Both Ahmet and Ibrahim notice that Tarik is making the connections in his mind, but they do not comment on that. Let him wonder.

"Finally, we know that something went... wrong with the portal. Something that caused the death of a number of your colleagues."

"Yes, that's right," Tarik replies, a hint of bitter regret entering his voice at the memory. "And what does is matter to you? It's my failure. It's a terrible failure. So if you knew that you could at least have left me alone to brood on the absolute failure of fifteen year's work, rather than come and _bother_ me about it."

Tarik is feigning even more misery than he actually feels. He is not expecting sympathy from these people; he's just going back to holding ground with a pointless verbal assault. He has no idea what these people want with him, but he's quite certain he won't like it, whatever it is.

"What it matters to us... If you want an explanation in straightforward terms, then here it is: we want you to help us continue your work, and we can solve the problem it causes. Fifteen years of hard work does not have to end in failure, Tarik."

Tarik is dumbstruck. This is not something he expected to hear. After a moment of thought, however, he realises that Ahmet is probably lying, or at the very least, does not understand the situation himself. So Tarik asks:

"The problem with the portal cannot be _solved_. There is no solution. You don't know just what went wrong, and I'm not going to explain... but there is no solution. So you cannot help us there."

"Specters." Ahmet says. Just one word, and it has Tarik staring at him wide-eyed. After a moment he regains his composure.

"Alright, just _how is it_ that you know these things? You could not have learned that from any contact. My friends are above suspicion, and the only other witness is currently in a state of catatonic shock – at least he was when I last saw him. So how-"

Ahmet looks to Ibrahim, who nods quickly. Then the 'holy man' turns back to Tarik, and smiles in a disconcertingly friendly way. Disconcerting because Tarik realises that the smile is not false.

"Would you believe me," Ahmet says slowly, "if I told you that our information came from a... divine source?"

Suddenly it makes sense to Tarik. Why hadn't he thought of that before? The 'angel'. Of course, a day ago Tarik would have immediately written Ahmet off as a lunatic; but now he is prepared to believe him.

"Ah. Zaphaiel, isn't it? The _angel_." Tarik can't help but stress the word 'angel', as a way of expressing his disbelief in the being's divinity. Ahmet's reaction shocks him.

"No!" Ahmet cries, throwing out his hands, and Tarik realises he has been seriously offended. Then Ahmet continues, in his normal voice: "No, not that one - he is of the devil's company. I know he spoke to you – but you are only faithless, not satanic – and you must not be drawn over to the dark one."

"Alright. So now you're telling me that I've been spoken to by the devil's messenger. Comforting. So would you say he told me the truth, or did he lie?" Tarik does not really think that Ahmet's opinion on the 'truth' of Zaphaiel's words is worth anything, but he loses nothing but time by hearing it. And he is a little worried that they might suddenly decide he is tainted, or something. He may as well play along. As it is, Ahmet himself has little to say about Zaphaiel.

"I do not know what the dark servant told you. It may be truth, it may be lies, it may be both. It does not matter. We know the truth and you will hear the truth from us."

Tarik listens, and to his surprise, Ahmet's brief explanation is almost identical to the one the angel gave – with the exception that 'Dust' is not mentioned at all. These men are obviously not made privy to all the secrets of their 'god'.

"The angels can command the specters," Ahmet explains, "or destroy them", he adds, shrugging. "So it does not matter how many portals you open, and how often, if the children of heaven are on your side."

"If I was on _your_ side." Tarik replies tersely. "_You_ want to use the portals yourself, and the angels can allow _you_ to do so safely." He does not bother to bring up the point that Zaphaiel made about the limit of the angels' ability to combat the specters. These men would obviously have complete faith in the power of their 'divine' masters. "And just what do you want the portals for, anyway?"

Tarik suspects that these men might be part of an extremely religious political faction. There are always a few who are trying to bring about a government based on their particular brand of faith. Since they are banned from involvement in politics in most developed countries, they tend to be less than honest in their actions. They are dangerous people with dangerous ambitions, but Tarik cannot see how inter-dimensional doorways could help their cause. Unfortunately for Tarik, this is a question these men are not prepared to answer, at least not now. Ibrahim speaks again, his tone distinctly threatening.

"As you should expect, that is something we will not tell you. And despite the way Ahmet might have expressed the situation to you, you really do not have any say in this. You are going to do exactly what we instruct you to."

"And if-" Tarik has barely begun speaking before Ibrahim cuts him off.

"There is no if. You _will_ obey." At this, Ibrahim unfolds his right hand, which until now has been clenched in a fist at his side. As he does this, he reveals a curious device attached to his hand: A thin black tube that runs down the inside length of his middle finger, joined to a flat, circular object sitting in his palm. This digital implant is an energy weapon; a concealed weapon; the kind of thing that no honest person would have, and that needless to say is highly illegal. But then, Tarik has already ascertained that Ibrahim is hardly a law-abiding type, so this point does not surprise him. He raises his eyebrows in an insincere expression of astonishment. Inside, Tarik is terribly afraid. He feels his pulse quicken. Ibrahim could kill him in an instant; Tarik has no choice but to do his bidding.

**. . . . .**

It has been dark outside for some time before the three men leave Tarik's house, heading for the lab. At Ibrahim's instruction, Tarik has set the timed switches on his house's lights, to turn on and off at regulated hours in the night and morning, giving the impression of activity inside. He has also sent an electronic message to his colleagues to say that he has fallen ill, and will therefore be absent for a few days. Tarik does not think that Robert and Laila are stupid enough to fall for that, but he keeps that thought to himself. If his friends can realise that something is wrong, hopefully they'll contact the authorities.

The two men have a hover car parked just outside, completely inconspicuous, and like most vehicles painted white to reflect the Mediterranean sun. There is little automobile traffic at the moment, and the walkway above their heads is completely clear of people. Ahmet leads the short way and opens the car's front door, and Tarik is directed to enter the other side; Ibrahim walks behind Tarik with his armed hand almost digging into his captive's back. Ahmet has still not said another word, and Tarik feels that he is a little unhappy with something – quite possibly, Ibrahim's use of force: Tarik never understands how priests like Ahmet can simultaneously abhor violence and support its use against their enemies. But then, Tarik never understood religion at all.

**. . . . .**

Tarik is only mildly surprised at the sudden increase in the security detail around the institute, and in particular around the testing laboratory that is his destination. He counts a full two dozen security guards standing watch at specific points or patrolling the area within a few streets of the institute, and they pass through two checkpoints on the way through. Tarik suspects that the authorities might be just as afraid of something coming in through the portal as they are determined not to let anyone enter from this world. The result, of course, is that by tomorrow everyone in the city will probably be aware that something unusual has been going on. Unusual, to say the least.

Each time they pass a checkpoint, the car is stopped. At the first, Tarik hopes that the guards might realise that something is wrong, and release him from his captors. But the men are prepared; They have Tarik check in, and even though he didn't know he had been registered on any list of 'people permitted access', it is apparent that he has. They pass through without hindrance. Of course the men wouldn't have come if they weren't sure they'd get in, Tarik thinks, as they head toward the electronic doors of the lab building. These men have it very well planned out.

They leave the vehicle near the entrance; there is no further road for it to travel on. Ibrahim goes around to the storage compartment at the back of the car and withdraws from it two packs: one just a backpack, which he gives to Ahmet, and the other a rather bulky, curiously-shaped package, the heavy weight of which he bears on his own shoulders. With this equipment, whatever it is, in hand, the trio approach the well guarded doors.

As Tarik enters, he pauses briefly as he recalls that he had come running through these only earlier that day, and come face-to-face with a security guard who had fallen victim to the 'specters', and had stood there, gazing forward with soulless, empty eyes. Tarik feels himself shudder as he recalls the horrid memory, and he is sure the men accompanying him notice his discomfort. If they do, they do not comment.

Tarik is instantly relieved to find that the specter victims have been removed. He does not know what has been done with them – would they be put into some kind of medical facility, in an attempt to treat them? Or would they simply be euthanised? Tarik decides that the latter is probably the best option, but he knows that many people would disagree - certainly, the priest currently accompanying him would disagree.

There is only one guard at the final door to the testing area – Tarik is unsure of the reason for this inconsistency in the security coverage, but he thinks it might be that nobody is particularly keen to go near the portal. Nevertheless, this one man is to prove the greatest obstacle to Tarik's captors: as they approach, his hand goes to the submachine gun fastened at his belt. In response, Ibrahim quietly jabs Tarik in the back, with a clear message.

"It's okay. I'm Tarik Nasser, I'm the head of the development team. We've come to begin dismantling the machinery in there." This story had got them past the previous checkpoints, but this time, it does not satisfy the guard.

"You're word's not enough," he replies firmly. "Nobody can come through here without the correct authorization. You might be the Emperor of Kwarazmia and I couldn't let you through. Sorry."

Tarik actually finds himself relieved, and is about to turn around to see and enjoy the looks on the faces of the men whose plans have been foiled. But their faces are impassive, and Ibrahim immediately takes action. Tarik watches confused as Ibrahim takes a step forward, his hand extended to the guard as if to greet him.

"Ah, but we do have authorization," he says, in the friendly-menacing voice that Tarik has grown used to now. And in a moment Tarik realises what he is doing, and he opens his mouth to shout a warning to the guard – but his cry is stifled by a sound, a soft but distinct 'crack', as the implant weapon embedded in Ibrahim's hand fires. The beam is colourless, but there is a noticeable ripple in the air for the split second that it takes to pass between weapon and target. The guard convulses and collapses, dead in an instant. Ibrahim's shot passed straight through his heart – confirming to Tarik the deadliness of his foe. Ibrahim drags the body out of the way and commands Tarik to activate the scanner.

Now that they have got this far, Tarik is worried that his captors might not need him for much longer; if all they wanted him for was to get in here, then his task was done, and they might well dispose of him. But then, maybe they would want him to accompany them on the way out, once they had done whatever they came to do. He can have no idea that the men have far greater plans regarding his use to them, and these plans are soon to be be revealed to him.

The men head straight past the polymer window and onto the testing area. Ahmet breathes in sharply as he gazes at the portal, and through it, at the endless sea of sand and fern-trees. Ibrahim seems unmoved; Tarik suspects that Ibrahim has seen this kind of thing before, though he can't imagine how. The air inside the room is rather thick and uncomfortably warm – air, the men realise, that comes from another world. Within a minute of entering the room Tarik can already feel the sweat glistening on his skin, but he does not react to that: his mind is focused on the task imposed on him.

"Gather all the data and schematics you have regarding the portal mechanism" Ibrahim orders. I assume they are kept on the computers over there." Tarik nods; the computer terminal in the lab can be used to access all the files regarding the entire project, though there are a lot of them. Ibrahim searches in a pocket with his left hand, and draws out a tiny, square object: a storage device. He presses it into the appropriate socket on the computer.

"Transfer everything to the chip" he says.

"Everything?"

"Everything you might need to aid in constructing another portal." And Tarik finally begins to understand what the men want him for. He is relieved to think that his use to them has not yet expired, and he does as he is told - the files are very extensive, but then, the computer transfers the data very quickly. It takes longer for him to send the commands to the computer than for the files to actually copy to the chip. In less than a minute, Ibrahim withdraws the chip and returns it to his pocket. He then takes another chip and has Tarik copy the files a second time, as a backup. He gives the second chip to Ahmet for safe-keeping – a simple, sensible precaution.

With this done, Ibrahim finally explains to Tarik what they intend to do, though he does not give any specific details. As Tarik has now worked out, the idea is that he will build another portal mechanism. They can supply him with whatever materials and tools and assistants he needs. What he is not told is how this assistance can be supplied, and more importantly, why they want to be able to travel to other worlds. Over the years he had spent studying inter-dimensional travel, one of the truths that Tarik had learned was that when it came to it, most people were content with the lives they had, and didn't really have much interest even in going to another world, no matter how fantastic the concept seemed. And Ibrahim's purposes seem likely to be as sinister as they are mysterious.

Tarik's first reaction is to scoff at the ridiculousness of what these men propose; the only realistic reaction, given the situation:

"You know, there is absolutely no way that you could ever have me build another portal. Even assuming that I was willing to help you – and assuming that you could acquire everything that I should need – you seem to forget some major problems."

"Oh?" Ibrahim asks, only half-curious as to what Tarik might be thinking of.

"For one, people will soon notice that I'm missing. The little scheme you hatched out with the lights and the note won't keep them off for long. Secondly, while I'm sure there are plenty of places to hide here in Al-Massala, if you start procuring the materials I would need, you'll be leaving a trail a _blind _man could follow. You probably couldn't conceal your activities anywhere in the entire country – or any other country for that matter."

Ibrahim patiently listens to this challenge, although he has had an answer to it all along. When Tarik takes a pause, Ibrahim replies:

"You have a valid point, but, you see, we're not going to be in this country. I said we had support in other places, didn't I? Of course, it is unfortunate that most – if not all – of the U.D.N. are likely to be as unenthusiastic about our presence as the people here. It is such a shame that they are so opposed to our work, when we are working for _their_ greater benefit..." Ibrahim is drifting away from his initial point. Now, for the second time, the quieter Ahmet takes charge.

"It is fortunate that there are still some lands on this earth where God's word is respected as it should be. We are working in accordance with a foreign power. It is to this country that we must now go."

Tarik is not particularly impressed by this idea. It seems to him that his captors' planning abilities are far more limited than he had first thought.

"We aren't going to be going anywhere." he states firmly. "We probably couldn't get out of the city. In fact, if you don't hurry up, they'll soon find the dead guard and you won't even be getting out of this building. Your plan is cut short, it seems. Not that I mind that, let me tell you." Tarik speaks with a good deal of satisfaction evident in his voice, as he begins to sense an end to this whole stupid affair, and a release for himself from the clutches of these madmen.

"We will be going, and as you were so correct to inform us, we must be going as soon as possible." That is Ibrahim again. "Know that we know exactly what we're doing. There's no use in questioning our ability to achieve our ends. Now, we will leave through _that_." Ibrahim gestures toward the portal, still open, still bringing in the warm air from that other world.

Despite Ibrahim's warning about 'questioning his ability', Tarik can't help but ask incredulously:

"You can't seriously be that stupid! There's no way that I could assemble this kind of machine in that other world there, if that's what you're thinking... that portal is the only way in or out of that place. T-"

Ibrahim silently and forcefully directs Tarik toward the portal. With no further protest, Tarik steps down back into the beach landscape. Carrying their packs with them, Tarik's 'companions' walk through as well. Tarik does not tell them to 'watch the step' as he had done for is friends, and grins as both of them stumble and fall down into the sands of an alien world.

Now that they are through, Tarik seems to be temporarily forgotten by his captors. He watches curiously as they set about performing a series of actions that seems so well-rehearsed that, in spite of all his misgivings about their religiousness, and his general indignation at being their captive, Tarik cannot help but feel some level of admiration toward them. For the final time, his debate with himself about the apparent planning behind this operation is decided. They know what they're doing.

Ahmet sets down his backpack and takes out a folded sheet of paper, and a small grey box-like device, similar at first glance to the jammer. He hands the little box to Ibrahim, who then heads back through the portal to activate whatever the box does. After only a short pause he calls a series of numbers to Ahmet, numbers which Tarik recognises as coordinates – the device must be some kind of tool to determine global positioning. That's pretty common gear for everyone, except usually they are fitted into cars. Upon hearing the coordinates, Ahmet unfolds the piece of paper. It is quite large, and so he places it on the ground to spread it out completely. There is currently no wind to blow it away.

Tarik laughs to himself as he realises that the paper is a map. He did not think that paper maps were even made anymore – everything is done electronically nowadays, and has been for decades. He reckons some people wouldn't even know what paper is anymore. Of course, it makes sense that if they plan to travel in this world, a paper map is the best guide. Without satellites, the GPS cannot work, and an electronic map would be liable to break – and they could not repair it here. Primitive tools can sometimes be the most effective ones, in primitive worlds.

Making a rather more dignified entrance than before, Ibrahim returns through the portal. He and Ahmet look over the map and have a quick conversation, keeping their voices low enough that Tarik cannot hear, though he is only ten meters away. Then, finally, Ibrahim turns to Tarik.

"Alright then, scientist. We're ready to go now. You have nowhere to go but where we take you – and this world seems deserted, so it would likely be in your best interest to stay with us. We have food, and water, and the means to obtain more. I doubt you could even survive a day here. With the kind of soft life you lead, you probably couldn't survive out of the city in _our own_ world."

Tarik is ready to believe him, too. His experience with field craft is sadly limited, while he suspects Ibrahim is probably quite adept at surviving in the wilds. As ever, though, he still has questions to ask, even if he is unlikely to get answers.

"Just where exactly are you – we – going, anyway? Where do you're 'supporters' come from? And while I understand that we're travelling through this world to escape pursuit, how are we supposed to get back to our world? Like I said before, I hope you aren't thinking that I'm going to just magic a portal for you when you want one!"

Ibrahim and Ahmet exchange glances. Each is the authority on part of the answer to Tarik's question, and they are conferring with each other how to reply, if they are to explain anything at all. This time, they decide to indulge their prisoner.

"Our support comes from no one less than a king of Seaxony himself." Ahmet says, proudly, as if that were something impressive. "He supports our greater cause, and is willing to shelter us and help us in our efforts to build inter-dimensional gateways."

Tarik blinks. This is not what he expected; in fact, it is rather a let-down. He might have expected these men to be from some other of the 'Islamic' nations, Tripolitania or Kwarazmia perhaps, where there was some sympathy for Islamist causes. But _Seaxony_?

"But – what interest does some tin-pot petty monarch have in other worlds? And he is a Christian, isn't he? Doesn't that go against your beliefs entirely?"

Ahmet shakes his head frustratedly as he replies:

"In answer to the second question, You seem to misunderstand our faith entirely. We accept the other peoples of the book as our co-religionists. We all follow God in our own way. And in these times – these terrible times – I am ashamed to say that they, the Christians, are a lot more true to their faith than we. They are not our enemy, it is _you_ – the faithless – who we oppose. The fact that we are working with you shows just how desperate our situation is."

Tarik is taken aback by the accusatory tone that the priest uses as he speaks the last sentences, alarmed by the sudden change in the previously mild man's temperament. But he does not comment, and instead waits for the rest of the answers. He realises he might not get another chance to hear, should the men change their minds.

"So then it is that the king of Seaxony, despite being a 'tin-pot petty monarch' as you call him, is indeed a powerful supporter of our cause. You are aware of the current political climate in Brittania, aren't you? That the war between Seaxony and Meirce has begun again?"

"As usual. It never really ended. And so you support one side over the other?"

"Of course! The Meircian queen is a godless woman. She has driven the church back in her lands and so they call her 'progressive'. The Seaxon king, as a righteous man, declared war. In so proving his faith, God has granted him the task of leading us in the Second War for Heaven."

"Proved his faith... he would start a war over the colour of the Meircian flag if it had come to it..." Tariq mutters, and then more clearly, asks: "But what on earth is this 'second war for heaven'?"

And so Ahmet gives him a brief recount of the events of ten years past, and the events happening now. Despite the words coming from the mouth of a narrow-minded fanatic, Tarik gets a pretty good picture of what he has managed to get involved in. And it scares him.

"And so you need inter-dimensional travel to wage your war, is it? To transport your armies between the worlds. And I am the one of the only people in this world who can help you there... such a shame then, isn't it, that I'm so firmly in the opposite camp..." Tarik smiles in mock-sympathy. It is Ibrahim who responds.

"I told you before, you have no choice. Know that there _are_ others who could build our gateways for us – if not in this world, then in others – and you would only bring about your own death by refusing to co-operate. You are a godless man, but you are sensible enough not to wish your own death. Now we have talked enough. It is not safe to stay by -"

Before he can even finish his sentence, Ibrahim is proven correct by an sudden cry of alarm that comes audibly through the portal. It is distant, but clear enough – someone has found the body. Ibrahim immediately begins unwrapping the large package he had been carrying. The moment the packaging is gone, Tarik recognises the object – a lightweight, collapsible hover-car: the kind of transport used by special operations in the desert and plain environments. It should function well along the relatively flat beach.

Ahmet has already shouldered his own pack and mounted the vehicle, rather precariously. It is evident that unlike Ibrahim he is not used to this kind of thing. Tarik does the same, at Ibrahim's quick instruction– he grasps the situation well enough to know that he cannot afford to be obstinate now. Finally, Ibrahim takes an item from his pocket. It is roughly the size and shape of a lemon – but dull black-silver in colour. He depresses a button on the top and then hurls it through the portal.

The vehicle is already speeding away when, a few seconds later, the grenade explodes in the other world. Debris is hurled through the portal, and a blast of air scatters the sand in all directions. The portal remains, but now it opens onto a ruined scene: the roof of the laboratory, though built to withstand immense pressure, has collapsed under the force of Ibrahim's bomb. Nobody will be getting through in a long time. Tarik only then realises that these men still haven't explained how they intend to leave this world again. They had better have something, Tarik hopes, or else they really are trapped.

**. . . . .**


	5. FIVE: Going South

FIVE

**Going South**

**. . . . .**

It is night, and it is winter, and it is cold. It is a small comfort, at least, that it is dry; if the road were slippery it might be completely intraversible for the old motorcycle. Not to mention that it would be incredibly uncomfortable for the two people sitting on it.

Aidan is struggling to keep his mind focused on the road ahead. He fixes his eyes on the asphalt in front of him, pitch-black, illuminated against a similarly pitch-black night by the solitary headlamp of the motorbike. It is monotonous, endless, nightmarishly eternal. It has been so for the last five or so hours. They must have covered a fair distance in that time, judging by the speed at which they have been going, but it seems as long a journey as ever. They are lucky that they have found the motorway pretty free of traffic; not empty, of course, but empty enough to the point that they have not collided with anyone, despite Aidan's lack of skill in driving anything.

The trouble Aidan has with concentrating his thoughts stems not from tiredness; He is used to staying up late, and on top of that he is pretty sure that the adrenalin currently coursing through his bloodstream could carry him all the way to Dover and across the channel if he wanted. Rather, he is busy wondering about what he has managed to land himself in, and he now finds himself unsure of why he has chosen to continue with this mad escapade. So far, he has been going mostly on instinct and a sense of adventure; now, with time to think, he is taking a more calculated approach to the matter. He's like that.

To his own imagination, Aidan was a fighter; he had ended his teenage years by finding idealism, as a few still do, and he had taken to his humanist-socialist cause with a passionate enthusiasm only possible to the young and irresponsible. In his certitude that he would build a better future for everyone, he destroyed his own, wasting his excellent potential in petty rebelliousness against 'the bourgoise system'.

To his great disappointment he came belatedly upon the realisation that he had little means of actually doing anything; he, was, after all among the privileged population of 'the west', whose interest in solving the problems of the world do not tend to extend past the comfort of their armchairs. The English are simply not revolutionaries, and the country neither needs nor wants such.

And so, the exceptional intellect that could have seen him breeze through university found itself in a young man without any tertiary qualification or the means to pay for one; and only the body he had honed for the coming fight – the one that never happened – could now serve him some purpose in the market for manual labour.

But now he's managed, by pure coincidence, to be involved in what seems to be an invisible war – between the reasoning and the unreasoning, between understanding and faith. From what little the girl has told him, he knows of a 'republic' – that's his side, then – and opposing them a force devoted to god. He is desperate to know more, but even with so little to go on, he's quite sure of one thing: he's finally found his fight. He's not going to shrink away. This _can_ be his war.

They have continued in silence for quite some time now, and Aidan is getting worried that his little passenger might be getting tired. The grip she holds on his backpack feels only very light – he fears that if she starts to fall asleep, she might fall off, with drastic consequences.

"Sam?" He says aloud, suddenly. He feels a startled movement behind him in response.

"What?" Samantha asks immediately. It seems she wasn't too sleepy after all.

"Just checking you were still awake. It's pretty late."

"Huh! It's not like I can't keep myself awake! I'm not some kid who's up past her bed-time, or whatever!" In truth, she is now up long past the sleeping time her mother typically enforced. But she wants Aidan to think she is grown up enough for this, and even if she isn't sleepy, tiredness is certainly making her snappy. Realising this, she adds: "Thanks for asking though. Really, it's good you're trying to look out for me... even if you don't have to."

Aidan smiles, a smile shared with nobody – he doesn't want to take his mind off the road by turning to look at his passenger. But he is always happy to have another's approval, even if it's just from a child. He's proud of himself, and he likes being reminded that he has reason to be. Some time passes before either of them say another thing. Eventually, Samantha decides to speak, if only to be doing something on this long, uneventful journey.

"Aidan?"

"Yeah?"

"Why are you doing all this for me?"

"I thought I told you"

"You didn't really. You just said we were 'on the same side'. There's got to be more than that."

Aidan thinks for a moment.

"No, there really isn't much more..." he trails off as he tries to find the correct words. "You know what I was doing when I found you? A friend had promised a job for me and – well, it doesn't really matter. I have nowhere else to go, and in truth, I've been looking for something better to do with myself for a long time.

" I know you don't know much about it, but I think I – we – have stumbled onto something big. Something worthwhile. Whoever your mother was involved with, I think they're the kind of people I'd like to become." Then, satisfied with his own answer, he adds: "I guess it's just pure luck that you happened to bump into just about the only bloody fool who actually likes this kind of thing!"

Samantha laughs. She is relieved, at least, that that has been cleared up. And she likes the answer. She can trust this person.

"I didn't bump into you" she says. "It was the bad man who bumped into you."

"Yeah, I meant it as a figure of speech."

"I know."

_Smartass_, Aidan thinks. She _is_ just he used to be himself – that's good. If she is anything like him she will be able to find a way through whatever lies ahead, and she won't break down in fear. The last thing he might want is a little kid clinging whimpering to his side.

Ahead, the road continues in darkness.

**. . . . .**

"Hey! Are you asleep! Wake up!" Michael leans across to shake Jacob's shoulder violently. "Are you going to stay with it, or should I take over?"

Jacob mumbles something and then nods his head with exaggerated surety.

"I'm still wide awake, Mike. Just need -" he yawns, instantly casting doubt on his words "-to keep my head up. What's the time, anyway?"

The broken LCD of the dashboard clock is displaying 88:88. It has been like that for weeks – the A.H.O. is lacking in electronic technicians. Michael looks closely at his watch.

"About half past ten. Nothing like last night."

"Yes, but after last night, I could have slept through this one easily."

"But duty calls us out of our slumber, right?"

"Duty to god. You're right. I should resist my... slothful urges."

"I didn't mean that." Michael shakes his head sadly, a detail Jacob does not pick up on. He's a good man, Jacob, but while his dedication is admirable, it borders on fanaticism. So long as it keeps him awake, though, Michael's not complaining. He would hate to end up wrapped around a tree because his friend had fallen asleep. Luke is usually the driver, and a better one, but he's been chosen to stay behind in Newcastle to follow the trail there. Unlike the others, he hasn't been seen running through the city with a rifle in his hand.

Michael's eyes go back to the road. There is a motorbike a little further ahead of them, but travelling slower than they are. That isn't surprising. Jacob had pushed the van to the limit for the last hour, and now is only going a little slower. And that only because the fuel is getting low. They want to be in London as soon as possible – Father Stefanski will give them new directions there, and they would soon be out of reach of the police.

The bike is now very close by, and illuminated in the headlights of the van. Overtaking it will be no problem, since there are multiple lanes here, and the road is practically deserted. Except – whoever is on that bike, is either absolutely useless at steering, or drunk. Every time Jacob is about to swerve around him, the idiot seems to move the bike in front of them again. Michael leans out of the window.

"Oi! Can't you keep still for one fucking moment!" He shouts. Next to him, Jacob winces at his companion's use of obscene language. Still, he himself feels an urge to say exactly the same thing. The idiot deserves to get bowled over, riding like that.

**. . . . .**

Aidan becomes aware of the van approaching behind him at about the same moment as Samantha frustratedly punches his side in an attempt to bring it to his attention. Aidan is a little slow to show any reaction, and so she hits again, more forcefully.

"Stop it, Sam, I know – why doesn't he just go around us?"

"'Cause you're going in a diagonal line, silly! I've been telling you for ages that you weren't driving straight!"

Embarrassed, Aidan pulls the bike to the side of the road – and he notices for the first time that there are two lanes between him and the curb. He hadn't even noticed. He must be more tired than he thought.

Michael is still leaning out of the window as the van passes by the motorbike. Samantha is mostly concealed by the much taller figure of Aidan, and so Michael cannot see that the very person he was hunting has just passed by him. But as he is looking at the man in the car, though only for a brief moment, a shock of recognition goes through Aidan's mind. As the light slides off the man's light blond hair, Aidan suddenly realises who had just passed.

"Sam! Look -" He whispers, but the man has already withdrawn his head, and the van is moving out of sight, and Samantha sees only blackness. Aidan is somewhat shortsighted, and he considers the possibility that he might be mistaken, though he can't convince himself of that. They have just been a hair's breadth away from their pursuer, and had unknowingly been in terrible danger.

"I think I'll keep to the side of the road now, Sam."

"What is it?"

"... I don't know. I feel it would be safer to try keep out of sight. Call it intuition."

"Whatever. Just try to stay in a straight line, okay?"

"Hah! You just try steering..."

**. . . . .**

Josh approaches the door at a slow, casual pace. The short, polite knock on the door is repeated. Polite enough, but anyone who comes at this time of the night should _expect_ to have to wait – there's no point in rushing.

The door opens, and a black man in pretty plain looking clothes is standing on the doorstep. This is not somebody that Josh knows. Maybe an electrician or a plumber, checking up on a problem with the block of flats – though Josh hasn't noticed anything wrong in the last few weeks, which is itself highly unusual. Anyway, workmen don't tend to come at half-past-ten in the evening.

"May I come in?" The man has a deep voice, but speaks with the same kind of accent as anybody in Newcastle. He's a local.

"I suppose so... I wasn't expecting anyone. You're not checking up on any bills or anything?"

"No, no bills" he smiles, but only weakly. "I would like to ask you a few questions."

"And this is going to be a longer conversation than you would want to have while standing at the door?"

"Probably, yes. You have a friend who turned up here earlier today, with a little girl in tow?"

"Yeah, Aidan... It's not about that is it? I really don't know what it was all about..."

"Still, I would like you to tell me everything you can. This is a matter of... national security."

Josh stares uneasily at his 'guest'. He doesn't want to cause trouble for his friend, but Aidan has a history of causing trouble for himself. At his 'height' the previous year, Aidan had joined with a group of hard-line communists who wanted to model themselves after the old 'Red Brigades'. Aidan hadn't been in for terrorism himself, and had left the group, but only shortly before the aspiring network was broken open by internal security. Aidan had joked that he'd just missed a holiday in Guantanamo Bay, but Josh didn't think it was that funny. If Aidan was in a similar mess now, with that kid, it might be best if he was stopped before he did something really stupid.

"You're from the secret service, right?" Josh asks. "You know, MI5, _Spooks_?"

If that was the kind of impression that Luke was giving, then he was satisfied to stick with it.

"If I might come in, please..."

**. . . . .**

"A _motorbike_? They were going to London on a _motorbike_? We were certain they'd have taken the train-" Michael is yelling into his mobile phone. They are in London now, and driving much slower as they approach their rendezvous with Father Stefanski.

"A black and silver Suzuki. That's what the man's friend told me. He was quite willing to explain everything – he didn't even need to be coerced."

"Then are you sure he wasn't just lying to you? Trying to put you off the trail?"

"No, he though I was MI5 or something. He told me his friend, Aidan, has a history of involvement in subversive groups..."

"You think he's actually from the Republic?"

"I wouldn't be surprised. He was pretty good with a gun, after all."

"I can still feel that, thanks. Look, I know where he is now. Just prepare a report and head back to the base. We'll meet with the Father here in London. We'll get them yet... "

Luke ends the call. Michael clutches his face with one hand. The painkillers are wearing off, and there is a dull throbbing pain still in his arm. The soldiers are trained in field surgery, and they took out the bullets, but one can't undo the damage, only bear it. After a while he speaks to Jacob.

"We've screwed up pretty bad. Remember that crazy biker? He had us fooled. That was our mark. The girl on the back must have been the young Coombs..."

"What!"

"You heard me. And what's worse, he could well be a soldier of the heretical Republic. He might lead the girl straight to them, and we couldn't follow. The only lead we have is her brother, and they might not even go to him."

"But they were heading here, to London, weren't they? Then we can be sure that whoever they're meeting, it'll be within our reach."

"But where in London? The city is massive! We will never be able to track them here." Michael is feeling lost, as he has never felt since the Holy Order had been established. For whatever reason, God does not seem to be with them. Michael's companion can see the despair in his face.

"Just have faith, brother," Jacob reassures him. "Faith manages."

**. . . . .**

The innumerable lights of the city of London throw a glow into the sky that has been visible on the horizon for more than an hour, as two tired travellers head into the northern outskirts of the city. Though it is past midnight, the city is still wide awake; at least, certain parts are. London doesn't sleep.

"You know where your brother lives?" Aidan asks. He has stopped the bike practically in the gutter and is standing with his right foot resting on the curb. He waits patiently for an answer: he knows Samantha is barely conscious.

"... No. But I know where there's some guy who will know." She produces a piece of paper from her pocket, with an address and phone number on it.

"Do you think he'd be awake still?"

"Maybe. But I rang him up last night, and then he sounded about ready to explode." Samantha laughs, though weakly, as she recalls her short, sharp conversation with Edward's one-time flat mate. "I don't think it'd be a good idea to go there now. Tomorrow, we can."

"And you have not thought at all about where we're going to stay tonight?" Aidan does not intend to sound accusatory, but he is so tired that he cannot be quite sure how his words sound. Samantha barely registers them anyway.

"Uh... no... we could sleep in the street, I guess..."

"I've tried that before, and I'd rather not do so now. Well, it's a good thing I've come with you, then. I know a few people who might lend us a floor and a roof for tonight."

Samantha can think of plenty of other reasons why Aidan's company is a good thing. But she's too tired to mention them.

The friend Aidan had in mind is, in fact, his ex-girlfriend. And when they bump into her on the landing outside the door to her apartment, she greets them with even more surprise than Josh had hours before. She has nearly completely forgotten Aidan, but seeing him, she recognises him instantly.

"Aidan – who is that?... she's – what on earth are you doing here?"

Aidan is silent for a moment before answering; partly because he's tired, partly because he has to find the right words to explain.

"Nothing more than a little assistance. We've just come to London, and ahh... need somewhere to stay tonight. Your name was at the top of the list of possibilities."

"It must be a pretty short list then." She's joking, Aidan realises, but he responds seriously.

"We didn't leave with such a bad relationship that I don't still call you a friend... I think."

"No, look – I guess – it's a little short notice, though... but there's another bed, and the sofa, and I guess there's always the floor..."

"Even the floor would be fine, seriously. Thanks."

"And who's that? Not your sister, surely?"

"No, this is a friend. Danielle, meet Samantha. And vice-versa." Danielle smiles at Samantha, who just nods sleepily.

"It's very late for her to be up, isn't it?" Danielle says as she unlocks the front door.

"Well, yes, I'd say it's pretty late, period. But like I said to Josh, you probably don't want an explanation. It'd be too long, and even more confusing." Danielle already expected as much. Aidan was always busy with unusual stuff – and carting around a little girl in the middle of the night is nothing compared to some of the things he'd got up to. She trusts him to know what he's doing though. Anyway, they'd really broken up _because_ of Aidan's crazy activities, so it would be rather unfair for her to pry into such matters now.

Aidan lets Samantha sleep in the spare bed – but only after she's already in bed does he realise that he can't actually fit lying down on the sofa, so Danielle pulls out the cushions and sets them on the floor as a makeshift mattress.

"It's sunday, right? I imagine you'll be sleeping in, won't you?" Aidan asks.

"You bet!" Danielle replies. "I was just back from a party when I bumped into you. I left early, so I didn't get pissed, but still, I think I need sleep!"

"Then I imagine we'll be gone by the time you're up. You don't mind?"

"Not really. You can help yourself to some breakfast too, so long as you don't wake ME up."

"Thanks. You're a great help. I... really appreciate it." Aidan's gratitude is plain enough without having to mention it, but it's polite.

"It's not a problem, really."

If it had been earlier in the day, they might have talked together for a long time – they are supposed to be friends, after all, and haven't seen each other in several months. But it is late, and both are tired, so their conversation is only very short before Aidan sinks down onto his makeshift bed, and Danielle goes off to the bedroom, where Samantha is already fast asleep.

**. . . . .**

It is sunday afternoon. The cheap digital clock on the table by the door reads 1:58 as Edward Coombs walks through the door, which opens straight onto the living room. Geordie Reed, Edward's friend and once flatmate, is sitting at the counter of the little kitchen installation, noisily crunching his way through a bowl of cornflakes. Geordie freezes as he hears the door open behind him, a spoon dripping with milk held half-way to his mouth.

"Hi." Edward announces, as he would have three months ago, when he still lived here. Geordie turns around in his seat. Edward takes of his jacket and throws it down onto a sofa. It's warmer in here than he had remembered.

"Ed... how did you?"

"Still got the key. Not that you always lock the door as it is. Natalie's dad would have a fit if he ever heard that."

"Your girl's dad has a hell of a lot more than me to be security-conscious about. So, how's it going?"

"Same as usual. I'm just coming round because I remembered there's still a couple of boxes with my stuff, stashed away here somewhere. We packed it up, but I never got 'round to taking it with me..." Geordie turns back to his bowl, eats another spoonful of soggy cereal, and then turns back to Edward.

"NOW you remember! Sorry, you're too late. I threw the load of it in the trash. 'Cept for your collection, that I sold on EBay." Edward stares at his friend with a look of horror. Geordie waits a moment before bursting out in laughter.

"Just kidding. No, you're stuff's still in the cupboard in my room. It's good you've finally come for it – I could do with extra storage space. You might have left, but the place still hasn't got any larger."

"You always took up most of the space anyway. Hey, how are you coping with the rent? I mean, you have to provide all of it now..."

"Well, I got paying work, and anyway, my parents still provide me with money for basic necessities. I can manage fine without you. No offense meant."

"Sure. Hey, you get back to your breakfast. I won't be long. But if you could help me carry the stuff down the stairs to my car, I'd be happy."

Edward opens the cupboard where his possessions are stored away. Sure enough – two large cardboard boxes. They haven't been touched in two and a half months, since Edward moved out. Sometimes it's good that Geordie never gets anything done, or he might have made a mess trying to shift them.

Geordie's voice comes loudly from the room where he is still sitting.

"Say, Ed? Did you get a call from... your sister, yesterday?"

"Sam? No... why would I? She's only a kid, and she has nothing to do with me." Edward walks back into the kitchen-living room, since he can't have a conversation with someone he can't see.

"Well," Geordie replies, "The little pain seemed to think it important enough that she rang me up in the middle of the night. Seems she thought you still live here."

"Ah, well..." Edward coughs awkwardly. "I can't say I'm very good at keeping my family up-to-date with my movements. But why would she want to ring, anyway? Was this last night?"

"The night before. I was going to tell you, but I was busy, and I can't remember your number." Edward knows that for Geordie, 'busy' on a saturday means sleeping, or partying, but he doesn't bother to comment.

"I don't know. Sam does some pretty silly things sometimes. Maybe it was a joke or something, just to wake me up. She has that kind of annoying sense of humour. At least, she used to." In actual fact, Samantha has rather grown out of being a nuisance for the sake of it, but as Edward admitted, he's hardly in touch with his family. "I guess it can't be anything important, or I'd have heard from her by now. I think I emailed all the contact details to mum last month or something... guess Sam didn't see that."

At this point, the door, which Edward left unlocked, opens for a second time. A small figure enters the room. Edward and Geordie stand speechless.

"Speak of the devil, huh? That is you, Sammy?" While she is a little older than when he last saw her, Edward still recognises his sister instantly. Still sitting nearby, Geordie drops his spoon, and it falls with a clatter in the nearly-empty bowl.

"THAT's her? Your sister, I mean?"

"Sam! What the hell are you doing here? I mean, in London? Did you come with mum? How did you know where to find me?"

Samantha looks at her brother with a mix of confusion and bemusement. Some greeting that is.

"Which question do I answer first?" She responds. "You asked a lot of them."

"What are you doing looking for me? Geordie said you tried to ring..."

"I didn't know you'd be here! That's just lucky, I guess. I was going to ask your friend where you were living now, I figured he'd know..."

"I told mum ages ago! Why didn't you just ask her? And where is she, anyway? You didn't come her by yourself, did you?"

"It's really urgent that I found you." Samantha tells him, getting to the matter quickly. "Mum, she's been taken by some men, who call her a heretic, and I got this disk, see, with stuff that dad and mum were working on, and it's really important for something called the Republic - and I figured you might know what it's about, and where it should go-" The words come tumbling out, and Edward has trouble following.

"SLOW DOWN! You're telling me what? Mum – oh, shit. You can't be serious. She can't have been serious. The Republic? Listen, Samantha, I haven't got anything to do with that. I thought-"

Edward is beyond confused. It's not that he doesn't understand - he can remember a time when his parents had been working, as scientists, for a man who was fighting a war against god.

Edward has vivid childhood memories of a fortress of black stone, of armies of creatures so strange and alien he could never describe them... and memories of angels too, good and bad, and a terrible battle – that time, that covered only a few months, had been the strangest time of his life. But then it was over, gone, just memories, and he'd returned to a usual life. He knows his mum was still involved to some degree with the remains of 'the Republic', but to him it is silly idealised nonsense, and he doesn't want it in his life.

Now his buried past has come back to hit him straight in the heart, in the form of this drastic news from his little sister. He has to believe her. He doesn't want to, but he knows it's the truth.

"Shit..." is all he can answer with.

Samantha is completely unaware of the cascade of thoughts and memories that have just flooded through her brother's mind. After pausing for breath, she continues to explain.

"I couldn't ring you, so I had to come to London myself. I was going to take the train, but the bad guys – I don't know who they are, but they nearly caught me. Luckily, I got this friend, he got me out of there and took me to London on his motorbike."

Edward listens intently, and is shocked at the thought of 'bad guys' chasing after his little sister. It sounds crazy, all the more so because he knows it's real.

"Who's this 'friend'?" Edward asks.

On cue, Aidan enters the room. Until now, he has hung back, for no reason except that Samantha was standing in the doorway and seemed to be intent on holding a conversation from that point. Now she steps inside, and Aidan walks to the fore. He looks at Edward, at Geordie, and back to Edward. His greeting is limited to a simple nod.

"My name is Aidan. I won't bother to tell you the details of how I met Samantha, but I am ready to help her with whatever she needs to do. It's a personal thing for me, this business."

"You're... from the Republic?" Edward asks suspiciously.

"...Not exactly, but I plan to be. And you're not?"

"Hell no! I don't know shit about this! Which is why I really don't know why you came to me..." Edward is actually annoyed, more than anything, about having the smooth course of his life interrupted by this crazy affair. He feels a little guilty, though, at the thought that he is putting his own interest above the safety of his own family – even if he can justify it. He did make the choice to forget this part of him.

After a brief internal debate, however, his conscience wins out. Edward, despite his inherent self-interest, still has good intentions. He looks at his sister, and at Aidan, and then says:

"Look, I'm not the kind of person you're looking for. But I think I might know who is – I picked up a bit about this stuff after – well, back when you were a baby, Sam, when everything had just happened. I could at least point you in the right direction."

"Thanks. It's really important that you help us, we haven't got anywhere else to go." Samantha is grateful, and feels no disappointment at her brother's lack of enthusiasm for this. Aidan, however, who had held a vague hope that he might find a kindred revolutionary spirit, is a little put out – though he doesn't show it. Any help is better than none.

"First, the disk though." Aidan says. I reckon we should see what's actually on it. Ah, excuse me, Edward's friend -" Aidan speaks to the puzzled Geordie for the first time.

"Geordie."

"Right, do you happen to have a computer, anywhere?"

"A notebook, though its pretty rubbish, really."

Aidan doesn't inquire further – the disk drive he's carring is for a desktop pc, and there's no chance of Geordie's notebook having the right components.

"There's two at my – well, Natalie's house" Edward responds. "Look, my car's just out on the street, I'll take you right away." Edward picks up his jacket, and starts to head out the door, preceded by Aidan and Samantha. Geordie stays silently staring at him. Edward turns to him as he leaves. "Look, mate, I'll, uh, pick up those boxes some other time, all right?", he says.

Geordie shrugs. His three uninvited guests have already left the room. He has just been witness to the craziest discussion he has ever heard, barring of course those observed in a drunken state. The mind boggles.

**. . . . .**

* * *

><p>Thank you hl-Geist for your support - readership is still going pretty slowly, but I'm still resolved to keep updating anyhow - Fan-fictions with OC main characters often have a hard time. We'll see what happens when I get to chapters 7 and 11 and you-know-who (plural) turn up.<strong><br>**


	6. SIX: Three Wise Men

SIX

**Three Wise Men**

**. . . . .**

The vehicle upon which Tarik is now seated has been constructed with the transportation of only two passengers in mind, and so it is with some difficulty that all three of them manage to fit. Tarik is thankful that at least he is not the one in the most uncomfortable position, sitting precariously in the cargo space at the rear of the craft: that is reserved for Ibrahim, who, while a callous and cruel man, is also ever ready to himself suffer if his task demands it of him. And anyway, despite the certainty that Tarik would be dead within a few days if he escaped, still Ibrahim does not want to turn his back on his captive.

Of course, this arrangement leaves Ahmet in control of the vehicle, even though he is hardly able to pilot it. This kind of vehicle is designed to be as lightweight and small as possible, and so it does not have much to accommodate an inexperienced driver. Luckily, the flat expanse of beach forms a very easy road for the hovering car, and for now they can still make good progress. Later, Ibrahim warns, they must turn inland, and head northwards. Then the going is likely to be a lot slower, if indeed the fern forests continue far inland, as they appear to.

There are no clouds in the sky, and the climate is hot and humid. That, Tarik suspects, is a constant here, and he counts it as good fortune that they are travelling through the night and not the day. Ibrahim and Ahmet could not have known the exact conditions of the world they would be journeying through, and so they have come unprepared for the heat of the sun.

As the first night draws to a close, and the sun begins its ascent into the clear eastern sky, Ibrahim suggests that they make camp. Well, he speaks as if he is only suggesting, but as Tarik has worked out by now, Ibrahim is very much the man in charge here, despite any spiritual superiority that the priest Ahmet might possess; so anything suggested by him might as well be an order. At Ibrahim's instruction, Ahmet pilots the vehicle toward the outskirts of the forest, the endless ranks of ferns that line the beach.

The few items Tarik's captors have brought with them include only some very essential things, such as the map, and water, and food. Food? No, Tarik decides, as Ibrahim hands him a vacuum package of dried rations. _Sustenance_ is a more appropriate word to use. The tasteless, powdery muck is about as close to proper food as the sand beneath him. His exclamation of disgust goes unremarked upon. Ibrahim and Ahmet are too busy discussing their journey to listen.

"It might be good that we travel at night now, but once we turn under the trees, I think we will need all the light of day to see by," Ahmet says. "I might be mistaken, but the forest here looks deep. I can't see my way through _that_ at night" As it is, none of them have slept, and so they are particularly tired. Not even Ibrahim wants to consider continuing _this_ day, but he knows that they _will_ have to start heading northward into the forests, and they might as well start here.

It will mean, however, a change in the seating arrangements: only in the hands of an expert is the hover car maneuverable enough to travel through the forest, an luckily, Ibrahim is an expert. This would mean having to leave Ahmet watching their prisoner, but after a lengthy discussion, it is agreed between the two of them that this is the only course of action.

Tarik listens to the men talking, and can only laugh at the idea that he would try to run. Ibrahim himself had pointed out that Tarik had no chance of surviving out in the wilderness. And as much as he dislikes being a prisoner to a pair of fanatics, death is hardly a preferable alternative. Especially death by starvation, or by being eaten by some indescribable alien creature. There does not seem to be anything in the way of large animal life here at all, but further inland that might be different.

With the growing daylight, the three men realise they must withdraw completely under the trees for shade. Terribly fatigued, Ibrahim for now relaxes his watch on Tarik, and advises that all three of them sleep. He obviously does not fear any kind of threat from the native fauna, and seems to have finally accepted that Tarik is not going anywhere, as he does not even suggest anybody keep watch. Very soon, both Ibrahim and Ahmet are quite soundly asleep.

**. . . . .**

Tarik turns restlessly on to one side, and then the other. His captors have spread out a couple of large foil-like sheets, that Tarik recognises as survival blankets, using them not as covering but as a surface on which to rest. Blankets would be not only unnecessary, but outright uncomfortable, in the prevailing climate. Tarik, however, has no such luxury. The sand is soft beneath him, but, like all sand, it tends to get everywhere. He experiments with taking off his shirt, and rolling it up as a pillow – but the sand then sticks to his back, and he finds himself feeling even more uneasy.

It takes a little while, after Tarik's captors fall noticeably asleep, that it sinks in to Tarik that he now has some moments of freedom. The others have little to fear from him – there is only one weapon between the three of them, and it is firmly attached to Ibrahim's hand – and Tarik does not even consider the idea of assaulting these men with his bare hands. Both a probably stronger than he is; Ibrahim certainly, by a considerable amount. And of course, he cannot pilot the hover car himself; he cannot even drive a regular vehicle.

Tarik picks himself up and has a look around in the growing light. Very soon, the glare will be quite bright, and Tarik notices that his sleeping 'companions' have both shaded their eyes with garments in anticipation of this. Tarik himself takes his discarded shirt and wraps it around his head. Looking like a Berber tribesman from some historical reenactment, he is now nonetheless protected from the sun.

After wandering around the campsite a few times, treading quietly on the soft ground so as not to wake his captors, Tarik chooses to explore a little. After all, only yesterday, he had come here as a trans-dimensional explorer, the first human being to set foot here. He still does not want to venture far- he will certainly leave a trail, and certain people may not take kindly to him walking freely about.

The area he is now in is much the same as the area the portal opened into, only further down the coast; A coast, he recognises, as being the same one that he has lived beside most of his life – quite a bit straighter, and not pitted with inlets: a smooth curve travelling far off into the distance, but geographically the same location. He is certain that if he travels along it in one direction, he would eventually see it curve into the coasts of Iberia; in the other direction, down into the Latin peninsula. In the distance, to the east, he can dimly see the shapes of mountains: the alps, but far less tall than he remembers them. The geological history of this world must be quite different to his own.

The sea is quite far off, and certainly unreachable to Tarik, bound as he is by a decision not to upset his captors unnecessarily. He admires the sight, however: a mirror-flat surface, only slightly interrupted by the occasionally breeze of wind. Tarik feels wonderfully free, just for this moment, light and careless, no burden upon him. There is something about this place, he decides, some soothing quality in the air, in the sand, in the soft light of the rising sun. Tarik's momentary euphoria is interrupted quite suddenly as his own body reminds him of his more worldly concerns.

Not only has tiredness caught up with him, but Tarik is starting to feel rather sick in the stomach. Not enough food? No... of course, the pill he took to negate the alcohol. He had completely forgotten. At least, that feeling will be gone in a few hours, once he has voided the chemicals from his body. That in itself will be a rather awkward task, considering the surroundings. For the first time, Tarik is really beginning to appreciate his comfortable, contained, city life. And at that moment he spots something so completely unexpected, that he at first does not even register it.

At his foot, half buried in sand, is a piece of rubbish. Tarik looks at it, and considers that the beaches in this world are not being kept clean with fanatical zeal as they would be where he comes from. But of course, they don't need to be kept clean... Tarik carefully bends down and picks it up. After first inspection, Tarik immediately ascertains that it cannot possibly have come with him or his captors.

The food wrapper, for that is what it is, is made of paper – not plastic or foil as it would be in Tarik's world. And the writing upon it is foreign – written in the Latin script, in a language that appears similar, at least phonetically, to Germanic or Anglic. The possibility of this item of waste originating from this place is dismissed almost before it is considered. In any world developed enough to produce wrapped food products, there would certainly be some other evidence of inhabitants. No, this must be left behind by another trans-dimensional traveller.

Another one. From a different world to his, though, and that's what matters. He is still first in something, still a pioneer. That's what counts, after all.

Tarik turns the scrap over and over in his hands. The colour of the paper has been bleached by the sun, so he can't tell what it once was – brown or green, maybe. He can make out the writing, but the language proves a little harder to decipher than he at first thought. Tarik is no linguist, but he is literate in six languages – Anglic among these, and it seems closest to what he is observing. But after several attempts at finding out what 'mint' (anglic for coin) and 'cake' (a sweet, baked foodstuff) can possibly have to do with each other, Tarik decides that either a 'coin cake' is some brand name, or the similarity between this and a familiar language is probably a coincidence.

He'll look over it again some time. But even if he never understands it, this piece of rubbish – discarded somewhere in this deserted world, and borne along by the wind till it reached him here – is still something special. A scientific relic. Maybe whoever owned it was _really_ the first human being to set foot in this world – or maybe not. Maybe he, or she, was just another in an endless line of explorers and quantum physicists. Tarik scratches his head, in a purely symbolic way, and neatly folds up the paper, placing it in his pocket. Then he returns to the shade under the trees, and drifts off to sleep.

**. . . . .**

It is well into afternoon when all three are awake and continuing their journey. As decided, they travel through the trees during the daylight, and it is Ibrahim who is piloting. He's very good at it, that's for sure – Tarik would complain about the sick feeling in his stomach, now not from the pill but from the constant lurching and swerving – but he knows that without that wild movement, they'd by now be in a burning heap at the base of a giant fern.

After another half hour of discomfort, Tarik forgets this slight gratitude, and complains anyway.

"Spare your breath" Ibrahim growls in response, without so much as moving his eyes away from the winding course ahead. "You can never just be quiet, can you. Nobody cares a moment whether you feel uncomfortable or not."

"Actually," Tarik says arily, "I _thought_ I should be treated like a king."

"A king?" comes a surprised voice from behind him. The priest, of course. Tarik nearly can't believe that the man is actually taking his words seriously.

"Well, seeing as I am the key to your whole idiotic war, I should be able to set a few standards for myself, shouldn't I?" Tarik continues, milking Ahmet's gullibility for all its worth. "Of course, being a firm believer in the evils of a monarchical system, I wouldn't ask to actually be..."

"A comfortable life can only lead us into laxity and sin." Ahmet takes on a grave face as he speaks "If we are to achieve anything in the eyes of God, we must be prepared to live a harsh and bitter life. Even you, in your heresy, should be able to understand the truth in that."

Tarik is amused, and not in the least surprised, by the priest's reaction. Personally, he finds laxity and sin to be not at all bad. But still, he _does_ actually see some truth in what Ahmet was saying - nobody ever achieved anything without sweating a lot for it. 'Harsh and bitter' is a bit of an exaggeration, though.

"Well, maybe I don't want to achieve anything, then." Tarik replies. Not at all true, but the only way Tarik can think of dismissing Ahmet. The priest does not preach any further, and, for once following Ibrahim's advice, Tarik 'spares his breath', too.

Night follows day and day follows night, and the journey continues unceasing, except for stops to rest. It is, of course, still winter, even in this warm world, and so the nights are quite long as compared to the days. Despite the danger, Ibrahim decides to start moving every day at the first hint of sunlight, and keep going until there is no trace of light to be seen in the night sky. Nevertheless, there is more than ample time to sleep between each day of travelling.

Sleeping is exactly what Tarik does not use this time for. After the first day, he has become accustomed to the swerving and jerking of the hover vehicle, enough so that he can sleep through the otherwise endless boredom. The amazing alien scenery failed to be even slightly interesting after the first few hours. Just more and more fern trees, stretching out in every direction. Ahmet, who would be likely to slip off the vehicle were he to risk sleeping, must persevere without any such relief.

**. . . . .**

On the third day since they first headed inland, the travellers find the trees beginning to thin. In addition, the hilly terrain is now much flatter and lower-lying, and the climate is becoming more temperate. As the third day ends, they have left the forest far behind them, and are heading through a landscape of grass-covered plains and occasional marshes.

Despite the more moderate temperature, Tarik finds that the sun still burns just the same as further south. A quick look behind him at Ahmet reveals that he too is suffering from the glare of the sun. And, once they stop for a brief rest, Tarik notices that even the hardy, toughened Ibrahim is red in the face. He takes some satisfaction from seeing that the sun is mercilessly egalitarian in its dealing of punishment. Of course, this does not mean he is any less unhappy about the sunburn himself.

Rest stops are usually at sources of water, to replenish the travellers' supply; or, now that they are on the plains, at the odd interval when they pass a shade-providing rocky formation or copse of trees. Never do they stop because Ibrahim is too weary to drive. Tarik wonders if he ever gets tired at all. There is an unsettlingly inhuman quality about Ibrahim's persistence; aside from the moment at the edge of the forest, he has not once shown any real weakness.

After a second day of riding through the blazing sun, it finally occurs to Ibrahim and Ahmet that it might pay to change their travel routine to going by night again. Ibrahim has not commented on the sunburn that is quite clearly present on his face and arms, but Ahmet, whom Tarik finds to be far more accessible, has begun to gripe nearly as much as Tarik himself. Evidently a harsh and bitter life is not quite one he would choose either.

The decision to change travelling time is not accompanied by another change in the seating arrangement; it has rather become set that Ibrahim is the pilot, and by now the man is comfortably certain that Tarik will not try to escape. Tarik is actually quite thankful that Ibrahim stays at the front, because he has in the last few days begun to have long conversations with Ahmet, on a variety of different topics. Though he would not like to admit it, Tarik finds that past the priest's fanaticism, he has quite an amiable character, and is well educated and interesting to talk with. Still, he is ever aware of the fact that Ahmet regards him as a heretic, and therefore evil. And that viewpoint is unlikely to ever change.

At first Tarik wondered if, out on the plains, they might encounter larger animal life than they did in the forests. He is disappointed to find very little by way of new species. There are plenty of insects about, though usually beyond detection while the party is travelling. When they stop, it is quite different. The mole crickets, like the one Laila had picked up, are not to be found; cousins of these, however, adapted to living among grass as opposed to sand, prove to be quite a nuisance as Tarik tries to clear a place to lie down one night. One thing that strikes him is that the insect life in this part of this world is very quiet. Where he comes from, the animals he knows as crickets and grasshoppers tend to produce a constant background chirruping, and this is true for the species down on the beach as well. But these here are often seen and never heard. A blessing, probably; if the beastly things made a racket as well as crawling all over him, then he would certainly never sleep.

If he had come to this world as a scientist, Tarik might have tried to find out why there were no large animals present in this planet's ecosystem. Of course, that would be work for biologists, not physicists, but he is interested in anything and everything about other worlds. Coming as a prisoner, he can only wonder at it in passing. He supposes he will never find out – but maybe that other traveller, the one who had left the food wrapper, might have brought a team of scientists who studied this world. Or perhaps that person had similar interests to the two who now hold him captive. They certainly couldn't care less about the mysteries of this world's ecology.

Tarik has stopped keeping track of the days by the time they finally reach the sea. The air here is considerably colder; still warmer than it would be in their own worlds, but the wind blowing in from across the ocean is nearly as cold. The sky is overcast, and has been for several days now, threatening a rain that never seems to arrive.

Across the sea, to the north, should lie the Brittanic Isles. In Tarik's world, home to a number of constantly warring states; in this world, home to nobody. That is the end of their journey, an end they have now almost reached – crossing the sea will be risky, but possible in the hover car, if they can be sure of a good beach to land on the opposite coast. With no knowledge of the geography of this world, they will have to make an intelligent guess and hope they are lucky.

The car, able to hover a meter above anything thicker than gas, is intended to be an all-terrain transport; But crossing a large body of water, even a relatively sheltered strait like this one, stretches that function to its limit. Tarik is thankful that he at least has a relatively enclosed seat, as opposed to Ahmet, but he cannot shake the thought that beneath him is a huge depth of water.

They have barely set off before he is plagued by terrifying thoughts. What if the solar batteries haven't charged up enough, the sun hidden as it is from sight? And while the car can easily mount small waves, a large enough breaker hitting them head on would effortlessly push the light craft underwater. Tarik hopes the circuitry is well waterproofed.

He really need not be worried; the vehicle's batteries could last for a week in complete darkness, and the clouds above allow enough sunlight to partially recharge them anyway, and the electrical components are well shielded from any outside interference, be it sand or water or corrosive gas. And as far as waves are concerned, Tarik should know as well as anybody that out at sea the waves to not normally rise enough to pose any threat – and the calm weather provides no interference either.

But Tarik is not the only one who is disturbed by the thought of a watery end. Ahmet, as usual seated in the 'boot', is separated from the sea only by the belt like straps intended to hold down cargo. Until now, nobody has actually bothered to fasten them in place, but even the priest seems to have just enough sense to use all the safety precautions available to him. Tarik avoids the opportunity to make a dig at the man's sudden lack of faith in divine protection – that would be childish, and stupid. Right now both men will share the same fear together.

**. . . . .**

The crossing is accomplished in far less time and with far less trouble than any had anticipated, even Ibrahim. Ahmet comments that God is protecting them (forgetting the terror he was still feeling only a few minutes ago). If that was it, Tarik thinks, then that god can't have much time for running the universe, with all the protecting he seems to do.

Unfortunately, there is no time to begin a theological debate on the level of intervention in earthly affairs demonstrated by divine entities, as Ibrahim, having made sure that the car remains undamaged by the sea crossing, insists that they continue on their way. Tarik can only guess, but it seems that his captors are trying to meet some kind of deadline, a time and date that is fast approaching, judging by the hint of worry displaying on Ibrahim's face whenever he pauses to check the time on his wrist-mounted computer.

Tarik had expected the island of Brittania to be covered in dense woodland. With no humans to burn and cut down the trees, he reasoned that it would probably resemble the same island as it had been millenea ago, in his world. Instead, it is covered in grassland, much like the mainland. Along with the absence of large animals, the absence of large trees – beyond the ferns, that is- is another of this world's ecological mysteries. Maybe such things simply never evolved here.

The geographical dissimilarity between this world and theirs proves a problem for Tarik's captors. He realises that they are trying to reach a relatively exactly spot, as marked on the map, but without recognisable landmarks, and no GPS, this would prove very difficult. After giving the problem some thought, though, it is Tarik who comes up with a solution. Ibrahim is rather surprised when he hears his prisoner speak to him.

"I've studied plenty to do with other worlds, and I can tell you that even though this world is very different from ours, it's not so much that the stars aren't the same. That thing of yours, it is a standard field computing device, right? It should have astronomical maps..." Tarik indicates the little computer. Until they reached Brittania, Ibrahim had kept it safely in his pocket, and preserved the battery simply by not using it. Very sensible, since now it provides them with their best chance of leaving this world, a possibility as important to Tarik as it is to his captors.

"A star map? We don't have any instruments with which to measure..."

"We shouldn't need any." Tarik smiles, pleased at being able to cut Ibrahim off and actually have the man listen to him. "I've seen gadgets like yours, and I know the functions they can perform. It _can _capture images, correct?" Tarik waits for confirmation. Ibrahim nods. "Then we just need to feed it a picture of the night sky here, and compare it to the astronomical maps in its data banks. It would only take a moment to calculate our position down to the most basic unit. Or just about."

"Hm." Ibrahim replies, and Tarik knows that his plan has been accepted.

"Following the stars, like the three Magi. A sound plan," Ahmet says – evidently versed in Christian myth as well as that of his own faith – and Tarik is actually quite happy with this comment, biblical as it may be.

Still, they continue on in a westerly direction, and have to wait till night to see if Tarik's theory is correct. This gives Tarik a chance to question Ibrahim on the details of where they are heading, and for the first time, the man has no good reason not to reply.

"Our destination is Oxenford. It's the seat of King Eadred and has been the capital of Seaxony since 1406."

"Since London was destroyed." Ahmet adds. "London was too close to the contended border."

"The coordinates place us in a large chamber beneath the King's palace. You understand, we will have to be at the corresponding location in this world, and then at the right time. We've taken a little longer than anticipated coming here, so we don't have much time to spare. The first attempt to pick us up will be at zero hours, tonight. They'll try again half an hour later. If that fails... they'll give us up as gone." Ibrahim says gravely. Tarik whistles sharply.

"Not very accommodating to us. But we can make it by then, with time to spare, if I can work out our position. We can't be too far away. What I still don't know is, how do they transport us back? What technology do they use?"

"Something your rivals came up with." Ibrahim says. "It's not suitable for our greater purposes, but it'll get us back. You'll see when we get to it."

Tarik understands that he'll have to accept this for now, though he is burning with curiousity as to what this rival method is. It won't be too long before he can find out.

For the first time, Ibrahim seems to truly respect Tarik, as he successfully pinpoints their location with the information gathered from the night sky and processed instantly by the little computer. They are only a few kilometers from the coordinates that are written on the map, and, travelling at a measured pace in as straight a line as possible, they have soon reached the approximate point. Tarik checks the computer again, and frowns.

"Latitude and longitude are almost perfect... but how close to the exact location do we have to be?" He asks Ibrahim, without explaining why.

"It doesn't have to be exact. Within twenty meters, at most. The chamber is underground, so we'll be standing some distance above the given altitude."

"That's it. But we're actually standing below the point, and by more than twenty meters, I'm afraid. According to the measurement, we're _forty-three_ meters underground."

"How can that be!" Ibrahim exclaims.

"This land is a lot flatter than it is in our world. And the Palace is built upon a hill that doesn't exist here. We're only three meters out of the range you gave, but it's a pretty solid distance. Are you sure this mechanism won't work over twenty meters?"

"The range is probably even less than that." Ibrahim sounds defeated, much to Tarik's surprise. Ahmet is looking up at the sky, muttering something inaudible to Tarik. Probably a prayer, he thinks.

"There's got to be some way to solve this" Tarik says. He can hardly believe that he is trying to encourage these two men. But of course, his own life sits in the balance here as well.

"Even if we piled all our belongings together and propped the car on it's end, we could barely reach two meters..." Ibrahim says, not even seriously suggesting it as a possibility. But Tarik immediately seizes on a thought.

"How high off the ground can the car reach?"

"Only a meter or so. It can jump to up to a bit over twice that, but no higher."

"What if we strip it of all excess weight, and leave the packs behind?"

"There isn't much weight on the car to strip off. It's very light as it is. We couldn't make much of a difference."

Tarik considers some possibilities. He's not ready to give up yet.

"We'll build a platform" he says, firmly, after several minutes of silence. Ibrahim and Ahmet both stare at him, uncomprehending.

"We'll build a platform just under two meters high. Then we can jump the car onto that, and immediately jump again. We'll then be within in the range, at least, if you are correct about that. The timing will have to be perfect, but it should work."

Tarik's captors look hopeful.

"There're plenty of boulders about" Ahmet says. "It will be hard work, but we will manage, if god wills it." Ibrahim says nothing, but immediately heads off towards a nearby rock formation, that juts out of the grassy plain. He takes the glove off his right hand, and with his laser weapon, begins to cut at the stone.

The task proves possible, although it is straining on all of them. Tarik is not very muscular, but the direness of the situation seems to lend him strength, as he helps Ahmet push several large rocks into place. Finally, they have built a satisfactory 'jump'. They have missed the first deadline, however, as it is twelve minutes past midnight.

"We will only have one chance anyway" Ibrahim says. "We can fool the car into jumping five meters off the ground, but only for a second. Gravity will take hold, and the car won't survive the crash. They'll be no practice run. And I'll have to fly blind."

"Blind?" Tarik asks. Ibrahim nods to Ahmet, and the priest walks over to where his pack is sitting. He withdraws a package from within, and, taking great care, he unwraps it. Inside are several sets of clothing. Nothing Tarik has ever seen before – the garments cover the entire body, and are skin-tight, like a diver's wetsuit. Ahmet hands Tarik one of the suits. Upon close inspection, he sees that the inside is completely covered in tiny, silvery contact points.

"You'll have to undress completely." Ibrahim states, matter-of-factly. Tarik stares aghast for a moment, but he understands the necessity. He disrobes, rather awkwardly, and Ahmet helps him into the suit. It clings tightly to his body, and as Ibrahim warned, the cap that covers his head does not have any holes for him to see through. Two thin tubes, rather uncomfortably inserted in his nostrils, allow him to breathe. Unable to speak now, Tarik points to his eyes in an attempt to relay his question.

"Your entire body must be covered by the points" Ibrahim answers. The sound of his voice is muffled by the suit, but is still clear enough. "That's why you can't be wearing clothes, either. If there was no covering on your eyes, you would find you reach your destination not entirely in one piece." Tarik feels for the seam running down the length of his chest, and closes it, ensuring that he is completely sealed from the outside world.

"We won't be taking anything with us" Ibrahim continues "Except for the information chips. The suits have a little pocket for those. Everything not sealed inside will be left behind here. As I said, this system is not suitable for our purposes." Tarik can hear Ahmet and Ibrahim now struggling to get into the remaining suits themselves, with nobody to help them. "It was some Sicilian researchers who came up with this." Tarik hears Ibrahim's voice still, so he can't have the cap on yet. "Even so, they can only be used to recall people to a kind of 'beacon', so even if we could somehow get guns inside them, we couldn't send an army anywhere. That's why we need you."

Ibrahim guides Tarik and Ahmet to the hover car that is standing ready for its final, daring journey. Sitting at the controls, Ibrahim checks the time off the computer, that he has set in front of him on the dashboard. Counting the remaining seconds off in his head, he pulls the cap over his eyes and seals his suit. Now he has to act with precise timing.

Tarik feels his heart beating at a rate he didn't think humanly possible. He sits still, unable to do anything but wait. A sudden jolt signals the car starting. A jolt – a jump – and a jump again – and then a terrible feeling, a momentary weightlessness, as, in his mind, Tarik pictures the car reach the arc of it's flight. Then he feels it tip forward, and he thinks his heart almost stops. He has been thrown free of the car. He is still travelling forward, pulled by inertia – then falling. Falling.

**. . . . .**

Tarik hits the ground with less force than he had anticipated. He lies still, dazed, his thoughts still fixed on the moment of his fall. Struggling to get up, he digs his hands into the dirt beneath him. To his surprise, his fingers seem to slide off. He pushes himself onto his knees, but then his hands slip out from under him, and he slams into the floor again. Confused, and disoriented beyond imagining, he fumbles for the seam of his suit. There – and he pulls the cap back, wincing as the tubes catch for a moment in his nose.

The light does not quite blind him, but it is unexpected enough that he blinks a few times. It only takes a moment for him to realise, to his amazed relief, that somehow he has made it back into his world. The floor beneath him is pure white, and slippery beneath the equally frictionless covering of his hand and feet. Standing a good distance away are several figures – all men, wearing some kind of grey coloured uniform. And stationed at what he makes out to be the entrance to the chamber are two armoured soldiers.

"He doesn't scan as one of our operatives." Tarik hears a voice say. The man is speaking in Anglic, so there is no doubt about where he has landed. "He must be the expert we're looking for. Pity we couldn't get the others. Something must have gone wrong."

Tarik carefully gets to his feet. One of the men rushes over to help him up.

"Still, he's the one we need" another voice says. "What's two more martyrs anyway?"

"They've got the files." Tarik mumbles. He isn't quite sure himself of what he is saying. "I can't do anything without the files."

"What?" the first man says. "What files?"

"Stored on data chips. Both Ibrahim and Ahmet have copies, but I don't." He must be crazy, helping his enemies like this. He can't even understand why he is doing so, he just does.

"Shit. Are you sure you need those-"

"You can still transport the men here. Just change your coordinates to be thirty meters lower down. Altitude, I mean."

"We can't just do that. Then we have to change the location to drop them as well, to be within the corresponding area..."

"Well, isn't there a room beneath this?" Tarik has already gathered as much, as he can hear noise coming from beneath his feet. "Just do it, quickly, before one of them decides to take his suit off!" It seems Tarik already has enough authority here that the men do not argue any further. One of them turns to a large electronic array and sets some new figures in.

"I'll go downstairs to help them" The man standing next to Tarik says. Without a word, Tarik follows him, and nobody questions his action.

Tarik stares at the empty air in the room. His companion has advised that they stay at the doorway, to avoid any complication with retrieving two wayward men. Upstairs, the other two operators are still busy working out the new configuration. Tarik fears that by now, Ibrahim and Ahmet will have taken off their suits.

There is a ripple, and a cut opens in the space. Looking at the tear, Tarik can only wonder how many 'specters' it must have created. But the cut is coming from another world, the one where the travellers are coming from, so the specters will materialise there, and not here. At least, that's what Tarik supposes. The thought of it being otherwise, and the horrific things entering this world, is too chilling to accept.

Two human figures appears to fall through the tear in space. Both seem to have been lying down, and they collapse to the ground much as Tarik had done. They are both unconscious, and that is probably what saved them, as their suits are untouched.

'We need medics down here!" Tarik's companion calls, and then he proceeds to open the suits of each man and pull the caps off their heads, allowing them to breath more freely. A whole team of men, presumably the medics, enters the room and both men are carried away. Now, it appears, Tarik's freedom is over, too: along with the medics come two of the armoured guardsmen. They do not speak, but roughly grasp Tarik's arms, and half lead, half drag him, out of the room.

**. . . . .**


	7. SEVEN: This Man Parry

SEVEN

**This Man Parry**

**. . . . .**

"The Republic of Heaven, they called it. It's an ideal of a world without religion, without any kind of clerical authorities, without the teaching of beliefs one cannot come to through rational thinking." Edward is repeating something he heard over and over, many times, many years ago. They are travelling in a car through the streets of London towards the house where Edward lives; Edward himself is driving, while his two passengers are next to each other in the back.

"A world without religion? A la John Lennon and Richard Dawkins? That kind of world?" Aidan asks. He is fairly excited about this. He's a revolutionary in a very unrevolutionary world, so the thought of people like him, striving for ideals evenjust peripheral to the ones he believes in, means more to him than either Edward or his sister can know.

"John Lennon? What the hell are you on about?"

"Never mind. Keep talking."

"Right. First, I'm not going to give you a long history of everything, though I probably could. If did, you couldn't follow half of it anyway... and you wouldn't believe the other half. The people you're trying to get to should be able to tell you better than I can."

"So where did the Republic come from?" Aidan asks.

"In short, They're the survivors of a war against god and the church. Think Republic as opposed to Kingdom of Heaven."

"A war? In a metaphorical or literal sense?"

"A real war. It got fought ten, thirteen years ago. Our parents, Sam, they took part in it, on the side of the Republic. I don't think either side really won. But dad died in that war, along with just about everybody from our world who knew about it... and there were very few of them to begin with."

"Wait..." Aidan interjects. "what do you mean, _our world_?"

"Someone else will explain. Trust me. Anyway, the dust cleared and there are still many very powerful churches, in our world alone, so we can't have won completely. We-" Edward notices that he is identifying himself with the Republic, which isn't really fair considering he deliberately avoided joining them. "But there were a few people left in this world, who decided to not give up just yet. They got into contact with each other, and set up some kind of organisation. I'm not sure how, but they want to keep the fight up against religion. They call themselves 'The Republic' after their old cause..."

"Of course, Republic!" Samantha says. Edward swings around in his seat, startled, but then swings back twice as fast as he sees an intersection rapidly approaching. "That must be the password." Samantha tells Aidan. He nods.

"So then you know some of these people?" Aidan asks. "Someone your mother met with. Can you steer us toward them?"

"Not _exactly_. I'm afraid I can't remember anything about them. A few faces maybe, but no names, no details." Edward shrugs. "Mum didn't have them over every weekend for tea and biscuits, you know. It was mostly by email that they talked. I don't even know what they even talked about."

"So how the hell can you help us, then!" Aidan asks, rather rudely. His excitement is making him impatient.

"Easy, mate. I'm trying to be helpful here."

Aidan immediately feels a little guilty. Edward is going out of his way for them, after all.

"Sorry. But, how can you help?"

"I don't know any of the people Mum contacted. And as it is, I'm not sure how many are still around, if there really is an anti-republic hit squad about. But I think I know someone else who can help you."

"Who is it?"

"A couple of years ago I went to see a friend who lives in Oxford." Edward begins. Aidan is irritated that he's beginning on another story instead of just telling them straight up where to go, but after his previous outburst he doesn't want to upset Edward by interrupting him.

"She was my girlfriend, when we were living in London together, but she got a scholarship to go to Oxford university, and that's not something you turn down. I didn't want to leave London for some small town, so I stayed here, even though we hadn't split up yet. That came later." Aidan is reconsidering the idea of interrupting. Why should he have to listen to this guy's life history? Luckily, Edward is beginning to get to a point.

"Well, it was a few months after she moved there, and I was staying with her for the weekend. While I was there she took me to some talk by a guy she knew. I don't know how they met, but she seemed to think pretty highly of him. Now, I have better things to do with my girlfriend than listen to some bloke blabber on about some boring topic, but I went anyway. Those better things could wait till later, if you get what I mean." Samantha rolls her eyes in Aidan's direction, and he grins in response. The two of them seem to be agreeing on a lot of things.

"But this guy was not some stuffy old professor or crackpot author. He was about my age, and his topic of conversation was – if you can believe the coincidence – the importance of humanist ideas and how to build the Republic of Heaven. Apparently, he's got a fair following among some idealistic types, especially among university students. I listened even more intently than anyone else, I think. He's a good talker, that guy. Something in him makes people listen. I was nearly ready to tell him about my past experience with the Republic, but not quite – it's too complicated a world for me to live in, that one."

"So is this man then a member of the Republic?" Aidan asks, once Edward has finished.

"I'm pretty sure he must be. I avoided talking to him personally. As I said, I very nearly undid all the years I spent distancing myself from that – a bit like I'm doing now, actually. But if you can get to him, I'm positive that he can help you. And mum."

"Any you do remember _his_ name, don't you?" Samantha beats Aidan to the shot.

"Parry. William Parry. And he's a doctor -a medical doctor- unless I'm very much mistaken. You just need to get to Oxford and look up in a phone directory for Dr. William Parry and you can find him." Finally, Aidan thinks, a solid lead. And he's pretty excited about meeting this man. He knows the type of person Edward described – charismatic, and intelligent. A very rare and very special kind of person, and the only kind of person that he, Aidan, would be prepared to follow.

"We'll head to Oxford, then, as soon as we have had a look at what we're actually carrying with us" Aidan says, meaning the contents of the disk.

"We're nearly there." Edward says. Natalie is going to be pretty surprised when she sees what I've brought with me..."

In fact, when they reach their destination, Edward is the one who is surprised. Nobody comes to the door, even after he has rung the bell repeatedly. Edward turns his key in the lock. Click. He turns the handle – and the door won't budge. He turns the key again, and then the handle, and the door opens. It had been left unlocked.

"Nobody home?" Aidan asks curiously. Edward had warned them that they would probably meet his current girlfriend.

"_Someone's_ got to be. Natalie would never leave the door unlocked. Her dad'd have a fit if she did. Maybe she's out back, and didn't hear me ring..." Edward is uncertain, but doesn't think more of it. "Come, we might as well get this out of the way. If we're quick you can be in Oxford this afternoon."

"Where's the computer?" Samantha asks.

"There's two of them. One's James' work computer, so we shouldn't touch that. The other one's in the living room. In there." The door to the living room is closed, which is slightly unusual, but Edward does not pick up on that. He opens the door. "It'll take a moment to boot up. Go get a drink from the kitchen if you're thirsty. It's just through there – glasses are on the shelf to the right of the doorway." He points at an open doorway, through which a tiled floor and a counter decked in appliances can be seen. Samantha and Aidan, indeed both in need of a drink, have already started off towards the kitchen as Edward steps into the living room.

There are people in there. Three – four? One of them locks eyes with Edward, and Edward stares back. He briefly registers that the man is holding something in his hand. A gun? What are they doing here? Confusion. And that is the last living thought to ever exist in the mind of Edward Coombs; he can't even feel the bullet hit him.

In the same moment, Samantha turns around. She sees Edward fall backward in the entrance to the living room, and her mouth opens – she doesn't scream, though she's trying to. Her voice is momentarily lost to her. A second later she feels herself pulled off her feet. In two strides, Aidan has made it to the door, with Samantha held firmly under one muscular arm. Bullets hit the wall behind him, sending bits of plaster crumbling to the floor. The gun is silenced, and Aidan hasn't even seen the shooter. He's just acting on instinct. Basic, animal, survival instinct.

He's still carrying Samantha all the way as he runs down the driveway to Edward's car. Why did he have to park on the road, dammit? He sets her down, and yanks at the handle of the nearest door. No use. It's locked, and Edward's got the keys. Aidan kicks the door in frustration. Maybe he can break the glass...

Samantha has already thought of the same thing, and she picks up hefty stone from the side of the driveway. Swinging it with his right hand, Aidan smashes it into the window, and reaches through with his left to open the door. He clambers in, scrambling across to the driver's seat on the other side of the car. Samantha is close behind, and pulls the door shut behind her. They've got away, Aidan thinks, as he reaches for the wheel.

And he is just about ready to smash his head against it. They can't start the car without the ignition, and, as they noted before, they don't have the key.

Out the driver's seat door, and straight down the road. There's no one out on the street, but someone living nearby has come running out- probably startled by the sound of glass breaking. He doesn't know what to make of the two figures pounding down the road, oblivious to the danger of the oncoming traffic. He shouts a warning to them, but he realises they're running from something - but by the time he has come to this conclusion they're nearly out of sight.

**. . . . .**

Father Stefanski fires one last bullet, straight into Edward's head, next to the first one. It's A.H.O. protocol – make sure your target is dead. Then he fits a new magazine into his handgun, acting with perfect surety, as if it were rehearsed. He's never killed a man before, but that doesn't bother him. Rather, he's scolding himself for being so careless. He should have waited until they were well away from the door. Even more, he should have shot the other man first. By God, he has never seen someone act so fast. He would admire him if he weren't a heretic.

"You... murdered him!" The voice is so full of hatred and anger that Stefanski is shocked out of his musing. He turns to the young woman, sitting against the wall of the room, Jacob and Michael's guns still trained on her.

"Child, we had _no choice_. I am as sorry as you are that we had to kill-"

"No you're not, you fucking bastard! You fucking killed Edward!You can't-"

Father Stefanski drops his gun back into his pocket, ignoring the torrent of verbal abuse. He feels for the woman, he certainly does. But she doesn't understand the importance of what he is doing. She couldn't understand.

"Brothers? Leave her tied, but put a gag on her. We can't let her alert the whole neighbourhood. Her father will be home and able to untie her before she starves. Then, you two must be back on the trail of the Coombs girl. They mentioned Oxford..."

Michael nods. Jacob only grunts in acknowledgment, as he is struggling to clasp his hand over his prisoner's mouth. She seems to have already fixed upon the idea of 'alerting the whole neighbourhood'. Father Stefanski exchanges one last glance with her – pity on his part, fury on hers – and then turns away.

"We are doing this for you, you know. For all of you. For your souls." His voice is very quiet, and he's speaking more to himself than to the woman. She wouldn't understand. Then he leaves, carefully stepping over the body of the man he just murdered.

No one ever understands.

**. . . . .**

The men have barely left the room before Natalie is free. She's spent the last half hour working at the knot behind her back, and though it was pretty tight, it wasn't flawless. She already realised they didn't want to hurt her, so she was just waiting till they inevitably left. She never thought they meant to kill Edward, though.

Standing up quietly so as not to alert anyone, Natalie walks softly over to the window. She can't bear to look at Edward's body, and she knows what she's looking for anyway. The white van outside – the one the men came from. She reads the numberplate softly aloud, without actually registering the number, just drumming it into her memory. Still repeating the number under her breath, she heads for the telephone. First she'll call the police, then her father. Those bastards won't get away.

**. . . . .**

"Sam? Seriously, are you sure we can just keep going? I – I can understand if you don't feel like you can keep going. Maybe this is a little too much for us." Aidan regards the girl with an earnestly caring concern.

They are sitting on a park bench, though they aren't exactly sure quite where. They've quite certainly shaken off any potential pursuers, but is seems to Aidan like Samantha is just about ready to break, and he doesn't blame her. She is staring intently at nothing, swinging her legs back and forth. She doesn't realise it, but that's a way of comforting herself. Aidan recognises it, and says nothing - he's still waiting to see what she's going to say.

"I'm _okay_, really. It's just that it's... it's not fair."

She's reacting far better than he might have thought.

"Fair?" he repeats.

"Edward didn't want to have anything to do with this. He just helped us because it was right, and they killed him. Not us."

"No, it's not fair," Aidan agrees. "But – if you understand, I don't mean any insult to your brother – but imagine if you or I had been the one shot. We'd be doomed, and so would your mother, and maybe all of the Republic. It might not be fair, but it's better this way." Very blunt and very true, and very insensitive. The truth often hurts, and Aidan knows this, but he has no time right now for those who hide from it. He can only hope his young companion has just a little more emotional strength than she's already shown, that little bit more that will let her understand. She does.

"I know. He was my brother, and it hurts, really, but I can't go all choked up for it, that would be stupid. _We_ have to do this, don't we?"

Aidan nods slowly, and forces a sad smile.

"And even if he never wanted it, Ed did die for, like you said, something special, right?"

"Yes, something special" Aidan says slowly. "Something great."

Aidan look carefully at Samantha. She's only a little child, but she's strong. She's a fighter: the look upon her face is sad, but it's also defiant, and determined. Aidan can only hope he looks that way too. That face, that's an embodiment of strength like he's never imagined.

"We'll go on to Oxford, then." His voice is more lively than before, as he feels optimism setting in again. "And we'll find this man Parry, and we'll help save the Republic. That's something great."

"Something great."

**. . . . .**

Father Stefanski crosses himself, and rapidly recites the Lord's Prayer under his breath. Sitting next to him, his fellow soldier is already cocking his gun. Lifting it to head height.

This is it; they have come to the end.

"Get out of the van! Get your hands up and step out of the van!"

How the police managed to find them so quickly is something Kazimir Stefanski will never know. It does not matter, anyhow: All that matters is that they are surrounded and heavily outnumbered by armed police, the road is blocked, there is no escape. That is the situation, and they know what must be done in such a situation.

"Get out of the van or we will be forced to shoot you!"

The young soldier hesitates, his finger on the trigger, and drops his hand down. He looks Stefanski in the eyes, the fear very obvious in his face. In answer, the priest places a comforting hand on his shoulder and he takes the gun from the soldier's trembling hand. No words are necessary, and none would be appropriate.

The armed policeman is about to deliver a final warning, but he is cut off before he begins. Two shots ring out, the sound echoing off the buildings enclosing the street. It has happened too quickly for anyone to react. He looks at the blood-splattered window screen and gulps as he feels something rising in his throat. Sometimes, he really hates this job.

**. . . . .**

Squinting, straining his tired eyes, Brother Simon tries to focus on the rapidly moving needle. He's been asking the same question over and over again, but the answer that he interprets is one that his mind won't accept. It's too fearful to accept. But every time, the needle makes a noticeable pause at the symbol of the hourglass. The symbol, in it's crudest interpretation, for death.

"Father?"

"Yes? Do you have news?"

"He's dead, Father. Father Stefanski is dead."

No tears well in the old priest's eyes, though the sadness is noticeable enough to one who knows him. Stefanski was more than a compatriot to him, he was a good friend. He will be missed, but at least there is the comforting thought that Kazimir Stefanski is now living in eternal bliss in the company of Christ. Sooner, rather than later, Benjamin Geoffreys feels that he will be joining him. He cannot ignore the signs: he knows he is unwell, and the stress of commanding the Army in this war will likely take the last out of him. Hopefully, he will at least hold out until this crusade is won. After that, it no longer matters.

"Is there anything else you would have me learn?" Brother Simon asks, interrupting his superior's thoughts. He does not have to wait for an answer.

"Ask what has become of the other soldiers."

Brother Simon sits down and focuses his mind, forcing himself into the state of consciousness – or unconsciousness – that he requires to read the device. He carefully pushes the hands into place, stating his question as clearly and precisely as possible. Then he watches.

"Two of our soldiers, the two who were in Newcastle, are still alive. They are still trying to capture the younger Coombs – they know where she is going, and are trying to intercept her. The brother of the girl has been killed, but maybe he was able to guide her somewhere before he died. But our other soldier, the one who went with Father Stefanski, is also dead. They took their own lives to avoid capture."

"That's the agreed upon, standard procedure – the only excusable suicide. We cannot let any of us be captured alive." Father Geoffreys says, firmly. "Do you know where the girl is heading?"

"I am sorry. The symbols are not so clear for me as that. But our soldiers know, and as I said, are on their way."

"Then we must have faith and hope they are able to succeed. It all relies on them, now. That is all – you should rest. You may take your leave."

The thin man slowly rises to his feet and shuffles out the door. Father Geoffreys watches him go, and then stands up himself. He'll light a candle in the chapel – two candles, one for Stefanski, and one for the other soldier. They are martyrs, to be honoured and admired. Still, Father Geoffreys feels a small, nagging feeling of doubt. He's not sure what he's doubting, but he feels that something is not right.

Standard procedure.

**. . . . .**

Aidan and Samantha are standing by the side of the main street in Oxford, the Banbury Road. A few minutes ago Aidan leafed through a heavy Oxford telephone directory, until he found the person they were looking for. Parry, Dr. W. Neither know what they would have done had Dr. Parry not been listed there; even though it is immeasurably smaller than London, Oxford is large enough that one could search for days and not find someone, if one had nothing to guide oneself.

They are on the south side of Oxford, where the Thames-Isis flows past. William Parry lives practically on the other side of the city; if they had known that, they would have got off the bus further up the road, but they don't really mind. Walking can be a very satisfying mode of travel, provided one is fit, as both Samantha and Aidan are.

The two of them, consulting a map and taking the most direct route they can, head north along the main road for a while, before turning off into smaller side streets. Neither of them seem to notice that the last light of the sun is now fading on the horizon, and are only vaguely aware of the light rain that is beginning to trickle down from the sky. Both are feeling light headed, dreamy, as much a reaction to the stress of the journey as to its impending end.

If either of them could have seen but a few minutes into the future, they would have been a whole lot more careful.

**. . . . .**

Michael and Jacob are acting with the utmost caution. They cannot afford to make a mistake now; this is the best, and last, chance they will ever get. They only briefly think to thank the Lord for whatever impulse led to their targets moving away from the main road and into these other streets, where there are currently no other pedestrians in sight.

The most major problem for the two soldiers is posed by the girl's companion. As far as they can guess, based on what little they have seen of him, the man is a highly trained commando, fighting for the Republic. However, they do not want to have to kill him; since the murder of Edward Coombs even the devout Jacob is feeling a little uneasy about killing bystanders, innocent or otherwise.

And they cannot plan to use their guns, except as a last resort. Neither have silencers, and both know how far the sound of a gunshot can travel. They do not want to have to endanger themselves unless they have no other choice. They must be quick and precise in their actions if they are to succeed.

**. . . . .**

The first Aidan realises that something is happening is when his vision is already only a few centimeters from the ground. A fraction of a second later his head collides with the pavement, and he stares hopelessly into the darkening, cloudy sky, dazed.

Samantha turns to where Aidan was standing, only to see her companion on the ground, and standing over him a large, imposing man. The glinting form in the man's hand can only be a knife: a long, heavy combat knife, made exactly for the purpose it is now being used for: to kill, quickly and efficiently.

Samantha reacts quickly, dodging back while searching for any possible means of defense. The man advances, and lunges, flicking the knife blade out as he does so, orange light from the nearby street lamp flashing across the constantly moving surface.

Samantha screams, a terrible scream, a sound so utterly terrified and so utterly human that Jacob himself is taken aback. Still lying on the ground, Aidan manages to lift his head slowly, but his eyes still cannot follow what is happening.

To Samantha, the pain is too much for her to pinpoint: she just feels a general, agonising pain, her body screaming out to her in distress. On the spur of the moment, she tries to unsling her rucksack , to use as an improvised weapon. Her arm doesn't react. Not pausing to consider this, she unslings the bag off her left shoulder instead, and spins it around, bringing it with as much momentum as possible into the head of her attacker. Momentarily surprised, Jacob staggers back.

Samantha cannot push her advantage, however, because another man grabs her from behind, locking her arms, both of them, in an iron grip. This only increases the pain she feels, but she cannot scream any louder or with any more feeling than she already is. A hand is quickly and firmly placed over her mouth, blocking out any further sound. Her first attacker rushes forward again, knife in hand, to finish it.

Then suddenly the grip on Samantha falls away, and, though her vision is blurred by pain and tears, Samantha can see that the man has collapsed to the ground. Aidan is standing up again, and his next action is to pull Samantha back behind him, every bit as roughly as her attackers have acted, but this time in a desperate attempt to protect her.

Aidan feels the knife blade slide past him, not missing him entirely, but causing nothing more than a cut in his side. A flesh wound. In response, he brings his right arm forcefully into the stomach of his opponent, intending to knock the wind out of him. The man drops his knife, but does not fall: He returns Aidan's blow with a hail of punches, well aimed and hitting with full force from the balls of his palms. Aidan, on the other hand, fights without any technique or expertise: he swings a closed fist at the man's head, causing no small amount of pain to to both of them.

Unsurprisingly, Jacob quickly gets the upper hand, and he swings Aidan to the ground. This time, Aidan anticipates the fall, but he is none the less well out of Jacob's way. Wasting no time, Jacob unholsters his pistol and raises it in the direction of Samantha, who is staggering a few meters away, clutching her right arm.

"Drop the gun, Jacob."

The voice is stained, but still strong and clear. Jacob cannot believe what he is hearing.

"You can't just kill her, Jacob."

Jacob turns to face Michael, and, though his eyes are filled with now pouring rain, he clearly registers that he himself is staring down the barrel of a gun.

"What do you mean? We're supposed to kill her, why else did-"

"I can't let you kill that child, Jake. Look at her. Does this seem right? How can this be right?"

Jacob looks back to the girl, standing frightened and bewildered, her fate resting entirely in his hands. He sees nothing more than that, and the fact that very soon his task will be complete. He doesn't know why, but Michael has snapped. He can't let that impede his duty, though.

"Michael, you wouldn't shoot me. You're my friend – but between our friendship and my duty to God, I know what I must choose. Just point your gun away, and I won't report this to the Father."

Michael falters. He isn't entirely sure himself of what he is doing. He feels lost, lost somewhere between the right that he has been taught to believe in, and another concept of right, one that he can't explain the origin of. And these two concepts of right are now diametrically opposed to each other, conflicting with each other in his conscience. His mind not yet made up, he none the less lowers the pistol from pointing at his friends' face. The reaction from Jacob is immediate.

But it is not the reaction either of them expected. Michael watches as his friend's face contorts, frozen in a mask of confusion and pain, and his hand drops to his side, still loosely holding the pistol. He coughs, a harsh, rasping cough, and he weakly tries to turn, with his last strength trying to face his killer. He knows he is going to die, but there is no time for this last recognition to display on his face, as he collapses forward, falling to the ground with a dull thud.

For a long moment, Aidan and Michael's eyes lock with each other, and, unknown to them but visible to Samantha, both faces share the same indescribable expression. Sadness, anger, weariness, relief. Michael drops his gun, and it lands almost soundlessly on the ground. Then, paying no more attention to the soldier, Aidan steps over to Samantha, and is caught between comforting her and examining her wound. For her part, she can only stare at him in pure awe. Aidan looks down at the knife still in his hand, already being washed clean by the now pouring rain. The rain also mixes with the blood still gushing from Samantha's arm, collecting in a messy puddle at their feet.

Aidan has only a very limited knowledge of first aid, but he knows enough to understand that that kind of blood loss can be fatal. A tourniquet – that's what he should use. He thinks for a moment, and quickly unties his belt. That can easily be tightened enough, and is wide enough, to stem the blood flow. Aidan looks over to Michael, not sure whether to expect help from the man or not. None comes.

"Right." Aidan says, once he is done. The blood still appears to be flowing freely, but that is probably just the rain washing it down Samantha's arm. "We're going to need to get you to a hospital, Sam."

"We can't! Then they'll -they'll ask about how it all happened, and they'll keep you from getting to Mr. Parry – we need to finish this, don't we?"

"Forget that! Bloody hell, don't you realise? You could die, damn it, if we don't get you to a doctor!"

"But isn't that Mr. Parry supposed to be a doctor? Couldn't he help me?"

Aidan hadn't thought of that.

"If he is a doctor, he may well still be working now. Doctors, they get called to do all sorts of crazy hours. I'm not sure if he'd even be at his home. And even if he is, he won't have a medical facility in there, silly." Aidan is not sure whether to sound exasperated, or to sound friendly, to comfort her.

"He'll still know what to do! I'm sure he can fix me up, and he'll be at home, he's got to be! Look, we can't keep standing here, or I _will _bleed to death. Just let's go." She is speaking with much more certainty than she feels, and she knows that Aidan isn't fooled by that for a moment; but still, it is a display of determination, something she knows Aidan to hold in very high regard. He can't refuse now.

"And what will you do?" Aidan suddenly asks, directing his question to Michael, who has stared silently at him through all of this. There is a noticeable pause before any reply comes.

"I really don't know. I'm not sure if there is anything I can bring myself to do. "

"You're finally beginning to doubt your beliefs?"

"No. I believe in God, and the church, and I still think that we must struggle against the spread of godlessness – against people like you. But... looking at it now, I see... you were ready to place yourself between that child, and harm... and you too, child, are prepared to let yourself suffer to achieve a higher purpose. Somehow, despite all your heresy, you have managed to end up holier than I am. That's where I'm confused. Lost."

Aidan listens, and then starts slowly along the path, holding Samantha's left hand. Without turning around, he replies:

"Well, to be honest I really can't care. So long as you don't harm me, or Sam, you do what you want to. But I'll warn you, you might want to be gone before someone notices the mess here. People'll ask you questions then, and if you send them our way, I swear you'll regret it."

watching as the young man and the girl disappear into the haze, Michael doesn't doubt for a moment about the truth of that.

**. . . . .**

The two travellers, covered in mud, blood and soaked through to the bone, stand motionlessly on the doorstep of the unremarkable flat. Aidan has rung the doorbell twice, and is simply too tired to try again. If Parry is not at home, well then too bad, there's really nothing more either of them can be expected to do. They have pushed themselves beyond all limits, and can go no further.

The door swings open, and Aidan makes out the figure of a man, somewhat older than he is, though still fairly young. His build is strong, like Aidan's; his hair is dark, and his jaw juts prominently. His right hand rests on the doorhandle; his left is held almost awkwardly in his pocket.

"Are you William Parry?"

The man nods, unsure of what to make of the bedraggled pair standing before him.

"Damn, but I can't believe we've finally got here."

**. . . . .**


End file.
